Legend of Zelda: Interlinking
by cheddarbiscuit
Summary: You are not the first person to get someone killed trying to do what you thought was best.
1. Chapter 1

Legend of Zelda: Interlinking

Disclaimer: Do not own—spent two days making sure all of the OC are as unoriginal as possible.

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Chapter one:

Link bobbed out of his sleepy daze just long enough to think to himself: _It's flipping cold._

He slouched against the plastic wall of the bus stop, against the cold, and tugged the edges of his knitted cap down over his pointed ears. He wished two years had not passed so it would still fit him, and his shirts would not be so tight-fitting and worn down. He breathed into his cupped hands and tucked them between his arms and sides, then he rested his head against the hard, grimy plastic and shut his eyes again.

He was bundled as best he could be in three shirts, one jacket, and the knitted cap. All of it was too small. He had hit a terribly powerful growth spurt at fifteen, jeans had become too short and too tight around the hips, the work boots he had managed to buy had almost gone to waste, and the knitted shirts strained with the stretchmarks on his shoulders and back. He could not button his jacket, and all of his shirts were slashed from the collar down, so he could fit into them, except for the plain white muscle shirt he wore underneath to keep people from noticing his protruding clavicle bones, that was cut down the back, the ribbing stretched tightly behind the fraying, make-shift V-neck of the white and green shirts. He would replace them when the sleeves tore off.

Without opening his eyes, he tugged down a long white sleeve from behind the cuff of his denim jacket. He wore no gloves or scarf. He had none. It was so unseasonably cold. It was supposed to be Spring. Early Spring. A harsh wind kicked up and he shivered violently where he stood. It was overcast, drizzling slightly. He had heard there would be a freeze come Dinsday—or Vitasday. Dinsday seemed like a strange day for a freeze. Maybe it was Vitasday.

He did not want it to freeze. Not again. Deep winter had been cold enough—why could late winter not be warmer, more easily yielding to spring? It was an awful year for cold—wasn't it always? Yes. It was always. But Aryll was going to be fifteen soon, less than a week. No. More than a week. Two weeks.

Anyway. He did not want it to freeze, least, not then. He had the day off—it came on Hyliasday. They were going to he park. It was not much, but it was something.

A bus stopped. The sound of the brakes woke him up again. He had become quite the light sleeper in his seventeen years. He breathed into his hands again. They reeked of latex and cold, stale blood. It never came off. He retched at the smell, shuddered, and looked back at the Romani Beef Processing Plant. His stomach turned a little more. He hated beef. The smell of it cooked brought the stench of it raw, the sound it made when it went through the saw—the loud and ringing cry as the blades cut through air and the motor ran, then the gritting rumble that shook his hands when the dull teeth hit thick bone. And the smell. The dye, the plastic, the latex in the cold. It gave meat an unbearable accompanying smell.

That kind of thing was going to put you off meat. Way off meat. Link certainly would not begrudge anyone who wanted to_ eat_ meat—but the thought of it made his stomach turn. It was not for him anymore. Not since money had gotten scarce. Not since he had taken that job. He felt dishonorable after he took off that bloody plastic apron at the end of each shift. He heartlessly cut up corpses for a living.

Suffice to say the days of happy, blissfully unaware cattle were gone. Long gone. Part of him yearned for a nice, pastoral, subsistence life where families survived by grown their food, not paying through the nose with wages they earned providing for strangers richer than them. There was honor in hunting, pride gained from a sportsmanlike kill and quick cleaning of game. There was happy simplicity in farming, gathering and barter. At least—it had to be better than this—inadequate sleep in a bus station and the constant smell of latex.

The bus' engine turned over and revved. Link turned his face away from the plant and settled in against the plastic wall again. It had been clear once, a long time ago, now it was sort of greenish and he probably should not be putting his face near it—but whatever. The hydraulic brakes squeaked and hissed and released. The door shut and it rolled away from the bus stop. Link could have checked for a vacant seat—but he was too tired.

And, finally, he managed to actually drift off into a quiet, black sleep.

Then someone rammed into his left shoulder, slamming him into the plastic and nearly bringing him down to the ground with him. Other than that, he was fine. His 'assailant' however, took a nasty tumble down into the pavement. The world came into focus and his lip was split open by the impact, his ears ringing. He licked it clean, spit out a bit of blood—he really tried not to think about the grime on the wall—and hissed to himself, "Din's Fire!"

Then, because he was still a mostly good person, and accidents happened, he knelt down to help her up.

"I-I'm so sorry!" she muttered. She raised a hand in a blue mitten to her fuzzy white earmuff.

She was warmly dressed; in good, thick jeans and leather boots, with thick socks between them. She wore a light purple woolen coat. Real wool, not the polyester imitation, it still smelled like moth balls—even this deep into the cold season. Link felt it against his bare palms as he helped her to stand. He envied the mittens. She got to her feet and those mittens brushed the blonde hair from her eyes. She looked frazzled, pale. Her hair was in a tight braid, but a few strands were still coming down over her high forehead, tickling the tip of her sharp nose, gracing her high, rounded cheek bones.

"I'm so sorry."

"It's fine—are you hurt?"

"I'm so sorry." she said again.

"No—really, I'm okay."

"I'm so sorry."

"I think you need to sit down."

He was pretty sure repeating words were a sign of brain damage.

She said it a fifth time, and again. Link stopped trying to speak. He just watched, took in the details of her face. She was his age, blue eyed, a dignified kind of pretty. It was hard to tell under the coat, but he doubted she was as skinny as he was, and if she was, it certainly was not poverty. She touched his face, his ears, those mittens were the warmest things he had felt all day, all the while muttering, "I'm so sorry."

"Okay!" he raised his hands to bat her away and she suddenly seized his left hand, and took his fingers between those burning hot mittens. She starred at the back of his hand, totally silent, like she could see something he could not. Then, she stroked the back of his hand, once—blinked for the first time their entire encounter—twice—and smiled, breathing in quickly, as if in joy and relief, a third time, and she raised her blue eyes to his face, she brushed the dirty blonde hair out of his eyes her fingers finding their way to the tip of his ear, then to his split lip.

Slowly, with shaking hands, she removed her blue scarf from her neck and draped it over his head, wrapping it around his neck once before leaning in close.

Now that the scarf was gone, he could see a black memory stick on a lanyard around her neck, but his focus was quickly drawn back to her eyes, the smell of her perfume mixed with sweat, the beads of it lining her forehead and upper lip, and then to the cracking rouge on her mouth. She hissed, with the urgency of the gospel, "_Don't drink the water_."

She gave the scarf an affectionate stroke, it felt like silk against his cheek, he did not know the material. He probably never would. It was burning hot against his chilled skin, warmed by the heat of her neck, scented with her perfume. She smiled, as if she were about to ask his name and say hello, eyes going from his left to his right. She tucked the memory stick down the front of her coat, not once looking away from him.

And then she ran.

Link felt like a fish. He stood there, trying to remember how to speak so he could ask her what in the name of the sacred realm she thought she was doing in this part of down dressed like that and saying such things, but she had vanished down the street and he did not really feel like giving chase. He needed to get home—his bus was coming soon. The encounter had lasted less than two minutes. The blood rushed to his ears, making them burn with the new shelter from the cold. He wondered what it was made of, then figured it was just heat and perfume.

A fish in a scarf.

His bus came, and it was only then he realized that she could have been an elaborate, jarring, pickpocket. He searched for his wallet. It was, somehow, still there. He brushed down the makeshift hood and paid his fare, then he went to the back of the bus, but the rear doors. It was not getting dark anymore—the days were lasting a little longer. There was that. He liked the sun, longer days. The bus ride took fifteen minutes, and made two other stops, so there was no point in trying to get anymore sleep. After the little episode, he did not feel like it, anyway.

The burning of his ears and the occasional tickle of the scarf reminded him that no, it was no a dream.

It was a twenty minute walk from the bus stop to the house he shared with his little sister in the part of town that no one really cared about. There was power, there was water—the best place there was the school, where Aryll was most of the day, where she was able to get breakfast and lunch, but it was far from the house, the bus stop for the school was only a five minute walk away—but she always got there around three forty five. He did not get home until—he looked at his watch—six ten. That was three hours. She could be plucked right of the street and he would not know for another three hours. And it would be fifteen minutes before he could get to a phone, if he ran. And he would run.

She was fourteen, though. Well past the age where she could be plucked too easily. He still worried, though. He would always worry. He was a terrible coward.

He put the scarf up again. It was too fancy at thing for him—he would give it to her. It would make a nice gift.

Someone called out, "Still in too-small clothes?"

Link did not say a word.

"We could find some work for you!"

Link gave them a brief side glance. A little finger of the local arm of the city-wide Moblin... Well, _mob_, with sharp teeth protruding from under their lower lips, and piggish snouts. Link was not frightened—this was a frequent exchange. He waved them away.

"Better than what you got!"

"I don't think you'd want a Hylian named Link." he replied.

"I don't think Hylians named Link would get caught so easy."

He turned around and walked backwards, "I'm too smart to risk it."

He knew—and they knew—that his name was half of a death sentence. Suspicion was the other half. Despite all of this, half the male population was named Link—even the Moblins had been caught up in the trend. Personally, Link knew of one Moblin, a guilt-free cab driver, that shared his name. Ganondorf, or even just the Gerudo, wasted no time wasting a fellow named Link, bonus points if he was blonde, left handed, and had even a single drop of Hylian blood in him, but folks kept naming their sons Link religiously—they just wanted their Hero of Time back so badly they were willing to risk their boys getting shot on sight.

There were not as many Zeldas—no one wanted their daughters to be the one Ganondorf abducted.

"Do good by your little sister, though."

By Nayru, he would.

"And Marin."

"Marin does good on her own."

"You'll fall someday."

He shook his head and turned around, saying over his shoulder, "I'm a horrible coward."

One said something he did not hear—probably that he was right. He passed by a quickly spray-painted Tri-force on the wall, like a little taunt. He laughed to himself. Him, in a life of crime? He'd be dead in a day. Less than a day. He made his way past the little temple of Farore. It was her day, so those that wanted to went to her churches and shrines and temples and muttered prayers. Link looked at the white building, and nodded his head as he passed. He did not stop or slow. He felt the Goddesses had been slacking, or perhaps they were gone altogether. Or perhaps they did not care. They seemed to have no use for the world, or for him. He had no use for them.

Yet—he still felt the need to make them know that he was there, even if he was a horrible coward. He was there, and he was willing.

And that was that.

He hurried on.

It was another five minutes before he reached the run down house he shared with Aryll, and Marin, and the other occasional drifter—because why bother with protection if there was nothing to steal? Sure, the doors locked, and Link and Marin both had keys, but there was nothing inside to take away. It was not much to describe; weak, pink brick, with some green moss and climbing jasmine vines creeping up the edges, over grown lawn, run down fence. The neighborhood had once been a nice place, before his parents died, and then his grandmother. The lights were on. He sighed with relief. Aryll had made it home. The door was unlocked, nothing unusual.

Aryll was lying on the couch. Link put on a fake smile, "Hey, kiddo."

"Hey."

"Dinner?"

"Not—" she sounded sick, "Not hungry."

He stripped off the scarf, the jacket, and the green short-sleeved shirt, then knelt down by the couch. He felt her forehead, she was feverish. He rubbed her shoulder, "Just started today, huh?"

"Yes."

"Want anything?"

"I don't think I could keep it down."

"You've been throwing up?"

She shook her head, "No, can't swallow."

He ruffled her blonde hair, "Try." he said, "For me."

Aryll nodded. As Link walked into the kitchen, he saw a half empty glass of water by the sink and he thought about what the girl at the bus station had said to him. He pushed it from his mind. She was just being crazy. She had just done it for a laugh—play a joke on the lower class. It was probably a new trend. He was going to play it on the safe side, though. He poured her a small glass of milk and made her sit up to drink it.

She was shaking, brows knitting in pain.

Little streams of red danced through the milk, and ran down the outside of the glass when she took it away from her lips. His heart skipped a beat—before he could say a word, Aryll lurched forward, retching. Blood, and phlegm, and bile, spilled from her nose over her fingers and onto her knees.

"It's okay." he said, "Try again. Just a little bit."

"I can't—" she took a breath—it was shallow, "I can't swallow. I can't breathe."

"We'll go to the hospital, don't worry. Drink."

"Can't—afford it."

She was right. Link knew she was right. He ignored it, "Yes we can. Drink the milk, come on." She did, and managed to get it down in little sips. Link put on his third shirt again,and the jacket, but left the scarf by the door. He left a note where Marin would see it._ Hospital. Don't drink the water. Please. Don't drink the water._ Then he helped Aryll into her coat and boots, she was sluggish, and tried to cheer her up with the scarf. It failed. He put it around her neck and over her head, Shut off the lights and locked the door behind them. Marin would get the message. Locked door meant something was wrong.

"How will—we get there?"

"Church." he said, "It's not too late. Someone is bound to be there." he told her. She was stumbling. He hooked her arm over his shoulder and stooped down so he could help her walk. It took a while to get there, but the lights were on, and there were people inside. He slammed the door, making sure it attracted attention. When all eyes were on him, he said, "She's sick—we need a ride to the hospital."

They stood up, the priest took a moment from blessing a woman kneeling up front to say, "Bring her some water."

"No." Link said, "Not water. Don't drink the water."

He helped Aryll collapse gently on the floor, and he said again, "Don't drink the water—even if you're sure its safe."

There were others crowding around them, Linebeck, who owned a curio shop that was curiously far away from this particular Temple of Farore, a couple of others he did not recognize, and Link the Moblin. He was the one that moved closest, and hoisting little Aryll up by the waist with out a word and helping her out the door and into the backseat of his cab—she tall enough to just barely stretch out on the worn down blue upholstered sheets. Link strapped her in with the middle seat belt, then climbed into the front seat, with a quickly whispered, mostly in fear, mostly in guilt, "I don't have money."

"She's not sick everyday." Link the cab driver replied. He started the engine as Link bucked himself in, then twisted around to look at his sister. He did not pay attention to the roads they took. The cab was a van—the only thing that identified it as a cab was a hastily hand-painted list of prices on the passengers side door. There were two seats up from, with a console between them. Link reached over it and grabbed Aryll's hand. It had gone clammy. She muttered something, but Link could not hear it.

"Stay with me, Aryll." he said begged no one.

She did not respond. She did not even look at him or turn her head. She was getting worse. Her hand was cold, but her face was bright red and warm to the touch. He pulled to a stop in front of the emergency room, and did not get out of the car, and did not turn the engine off. Before Link to wonder out loud how they would get home, he said, "I'll come back. Marin goes to the church—Preist'll tell her. She's smart. She'll wait."

That was true. Marin was more religious than he was.

"Thank you, I—"

"She doesn't get sick everyday." he said again, "But you can't afford this anyway. I don't kick people when they're already down."

It was true. He helped Aryll into the emergency room—and it was flooded with cases like hers. Entire families in pain—chemical burns on hands and faces. Some unlucky woman had taken a shower in it—what ever it was. He set Aryll down in a chair and checked her in. It looked to be a long wait, but as long as she did not drink any more, she could not get any worse, right? They handed out a whitish, foggy drink—they said it was magnesium and it would help until they could do more—and bottled water that they promised was safe to drink. When they did, Link realized just how parched, and starving, he was. He had not had a bite since that morning. He did not say a word about it to Aryll, though. He just made sure she drank her water and made sure she stayed alive, shifting his thumb occasionally to check her pulse while she slept against his shoulder.

He worried. He worried about Marin on the road, he worried about Aryll slipping away right beside him and he said to himself that everyone in the ER could die if it meant she lived. And he worried about the money.

He did not want to go—but they had nothing to pawn to Linebeck that could possibly be the same as the cost of any treatment—unless it was the house, but he doubted that. Linebeck would not take that house, or anything in it. Marin arrived then, feet moving quickly in those work boots he had outgrown as soon as they had bought them, red hair loosely pulled back and frizzing. The doctors whisked Aryll away. Link could not stay. Not for this. He had to leave, so while Marin was distracted with the doctors he went to the cab driver in the parking garage and said quickly, before he lost his nerve, "Take me back. I have to go take care of something."

There was a heavy pause, and unspoken understanding that almost became a tangible thing in the air between them, and the Cab Driver said, "Okay."

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I've got those First Fanfic Jitters all over again! Drop a review—also tell your friends!


	2. Chapter 2

Interlinking

(Disclaimed.)

If you don't listen to Flobots—start listening to Flobots.

It's what I'm listening to when I'm writing this fic. Go do it.

Even if you hate rap—go do it. It's good rap.

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Chapter two:

"This is where I leave you." He said. His face was set in a frown, tusks digging into his laugh lines. "Walk two blocks, take a left—there's an alley way."

"I thought you were clean as a whistle."

"That's because this is as far as I go." he said, his eyes never wavered from the road in front of them, the reflective white paint of the side walk, "You're on your own. I'm going back to the hospital. You know your own address. I can't loiter here."

That was true.

"Thank you." Link said. He opened the cab door an stepped out onto the street. He looked down the two blocks he was supposed to walk. They were the longest he had ever seen, boxed in by brick buildings that seemed to loom over him in the night. It was even colder now—what was worse was that it was one or two in the morning. He had work and he needed to sleep, but he was too shaken. The streets were completely abandoned. He did not recognize this location—but there was a lot of New Hyrule he had not seen. He tensed up, hands balling into fists, his back arching forward into a steeled, terrified slouch. He folded his arms and walked forward, crossing in front of the cab. He watched his shadow mirror his steps and stretch before him like a giant. His shadow did not tremble. His shadow was brave. He made an effort to stride more like his shadow.

He wavered in his path. The closer he got the tighter his belly pulled and the faster his heart fluttered. He did not want to do this. He was terrified. He should no to this. Marin would kill him—if someone else did not him to him first.

One block down.

He let out a breath in the chilly air, it billowed up in front of him in a fine mist. He inhaled again. _No choice._ He reminded himself.

He heard the cabbie drive off, pulling away the light behind him, taking away his shadow. He felt stripped with out it. He became aware of the sound of his own footsteps. They were loud—unnerving.

He went left—there was the alleyway, a little narrow space between a dentist's office and an insurance office. He should take out a policy on himself.

He followed a loud bass rumble to a smoke-filled basement that attached to an insurance office (maybe he should take out a policy somewhere else). He knocked on the door and waited. Nothing happened. He knocked again, not with his knuckles, but with the side of his fist. Still—no one responded. He took this as a chance to turn back and never return—but he could not. This was his only choice, and this was his only chance.

"Hey!" he shouted, pounding on the door again. No one came. He tried the handle, found it unlocked, and felt very stupid. The music surged forward, hit him in the face, rumbled between his ears. Colored lights flashed, smoke and artificial fog billowed up, kicked out the door a little bit, as well as a welcome blast of warm air. One or two of them turn his way and looked him over—he was one of the only humans in the place. The one he had seen just a few hours ago came up to him and gave him a hearty shake.

Did they know? He wondered. No one seemed to be sick or burned. Maybe it hit some areas sooner than others. He did not get a chance to ask.

"Well, look what we have here!"

"Yes." he tried to sound casual, "I'd like some work after all."

"So—what happened?" he asked with a curious, teasing grin, "What makes our local Hero of Time want to join the dark side?"

"My sister was poisoned."

The Moblin—it was worth pointed out that his name was Larry—tugged him inside. He looked up the stairs into the night, then closed the door. It became much harder to hear him. "Is she alright—Is she alive, I mean?"

"I—I don't actually know. She was alive when I left."

"Right—well." Larry said, "Hands against the wall."

Link obeyed. He pressed his hands flat against the wall, held his arms straight, about two inches about his shoulders. Larry gave him a pat down, checking his jeans and boots for blades, and his chest for a gun. There were none to find, but Link understood the situation enough to bear with it, so he kept his mouth. It was over quickly, with no harm done, and Larry asked, "How'd you get here?"

"Cab driver."

"Oh—" There was a pause, "Sorry about this."

He grabbed his hands and crossed them behind his back at the wrists. He secured them with plastic zip-ties. "Ow!"

"And sorry about this."

He put a bag over his head. It smelled like blood and bile and twenty different people. Also flour. It was an old flour sack.

"It's fine." Link said, "So long as you don't shoot me."

"No—we won't be killing you." Larry answered him, "Going for a little drive." he called over his shoulder, then to Link, he whispered, "Don't want you to see where."

"Right."

He took Link out of the club, back onto the street. He fumbled uneasily on the stairs, and Larry muttered an apology each time he did. They walked for a while, turned right, then left, and right again, heading somewhere unknown. He was loaded into the back of a car, and Larry told him to keep his head down, which he did. They drove for thirty minutes, and he gave up trying to determine where they were in relation to where they had started.

Lights passed, Link saw the glow through the weave of the fabric, but not a lot else, a few other cars honked. Someone drove by with a blaring radio. It was too early for that. It got darker—the lights fewer. Larry slowed down. The sound of the road changed, roaring and smooth to crumpling and rough—they were on unpaved gravel. He did not know there were places like that in New Hyrule.

The car stopped, he heard the sounds of the locks buzzing shut. Larry huffed in frustration, and he opened them again. He climbed out of the car, and half-tugged Link out as well. He walked him through a gate, up some narrow wooden steps and on to a small, carpeted front porch that sagged and protested under their combined weight. He heard music again—much softer this time, much less bass and slower. Larry knocked on the door, and it opened almost at once.

They went inside, across a creaking floor, and he was set down on a metal folding chair. The bag was removed from his head—but it did not make much difference. It was dark—the room was small, it was a trailer, Link realized. There was a light on in the bedroom at the end of the hall, past the washer and dryer, someone moved around in the back—he saw a shadow pass over the bedroom wall. Colored light changed on the wall in front of him, and on the figure of a Moblin on the couch. The TV was playing an old film—he heard the hum of a VCR and knew it was from before Ganondorf's day. He did not know the film's title, but the grand, sweeping music meant it was probably one of the Zelda films—they had made so many of the things before Ganondorf came to power, fully gained the Trifroce and crushed Link and Zelda for all time.

They lost their appeal after that—and he cracked down on censorship—so... yeah. The music swelled, and then abruptly stopped. Link focused on the short, heavy Moblin on the beat-up couch before him. He had no shoes on, and a wife-beater that was yellowed and stained around the neck. He was listening intently to what Larry was whispering into his ear, the remote in one hand, a hand-rolled cigarette in the other. It did not smell like any tobacco Link knew. Suddenly, he laughed, big and hearty. He slapped his knee, kicking up a bit, and Link caught a glimpse of heart-covered boxers. He did not think people actually wore those—or that they were even made. Larry finished his story and stepped away, he vanished out of the corner of Link's eye, but he heard him moving around past his shoulder in the dim light.

When he was done laughing, he raised a small glass of a dark drink to his lips. Link saw the reflection of the TV in the bottom, though it was blurry and distorted. The Hero of Time was just an inch away from the kiss of his life.

The Moblin tapped his chest and muttered, "Excuse me." before addressing Link, "It's such a shame—what happened to your sister."

"I think she's alive, but—" he should have not left so early. She could be dead right now—They would still need the money, though. Not just for treatment, but her funeral, if she was dead. He did not finish that thought—he could not stand to.

He took in a completely different direction for him, "There is a difference between what you're willing to pay and what you can pay."

"Yes."

The Moblin boss nodded solemnly, "I guess you know, Link, we've wanted to welcome you into the fold for a while."

"Can't imagine why."

He chuckled. "Well, I figure you've got just as good a chance as all of the other Links."

Link frowned—he had no idea where he was, though, and his hands were bound by a painful, biting zip-tie, so he did not mutter the curse he was thinking. He still thought it though.

He took another swig of his drink, "If the Hero of Time rolls in—I'd like the world to know he's one of mine and I've go his back."

Link was no legendary hero, and he was pretty sure they both knew that, too—but allies would never hurt. He looked away from the Moblin boss and back to the bedroom. The lights were off—they had moved into the bathroom now, the water was running. He could go for a shower. Also some sleep. And some food. He looked back to the Moblin boss, he was looking at him intently, with dark, clear eyes.

"So—what do you want?"

"I'll work for you—you give me money to pay for Aryll's treatment. When I'm done, I walk away, and our business never happened."

He frowned, scratched the thin little patch of hair on his chin. He did not like that arrangement. He would push for a tie for life. Link would avoid it—but he had to remember, he had to have the money for Aryll, and once his feet were wet they would never be dry again, so to speak. That was not something he could forget. Joining a rival gang would be stupid when he lived on Moblin turf. He was not dumb.

"Okay." he said when he put the drink down, "Okay. As long as you need the money—you'll have work here. When your debt's paid, you can walk away—but if you turn us in, you're going to be paying to bury her—and you'll be doing it with no hands."

Link leaned back.

No further explanation was really _needed_ beyond that statement, but he went on anyway, "Because I'll smash that left hand of yours right open and see if Ganondorf really does have that Triforce of Courage. And _Marin—_"

"If you hurt either on of them—!" Link stared to shout, his voice cracked, "Neither one of them needs to know about this. Marin and Aryll are not your collateral _I_ am."

He wanted to anger him: "We'd get more money—"

Link burned: "You shut the hell up."

He shut the hell up, dropped the thought completely, "You know what will happen if you get caught."

"Yes."

"It was before your time." He got a far off look in his eye. "Little kid, not more than ten years old, got caught too close to the palace." He paused, took a drink, and ruined the moment with a delicate belch, "Killed on sight for the heinous crime of being named Link."

Link got a bitter taste in his mouth. The Moblin leaned forward, a serious expression on his face—and link noticed the strangest thing. His teeth were _perfect_. He had expected him to have foul breath and blackened teeth—but aside from a hint of rum he was the picture of oral health. He was confused. Intrigued. The pearly whites flashed in the cool light of the TV. He reminded him, "And that could be you."

Link thought he was going to bring the conversation back to Aryll and Marin. He did not. He leaned back abruptly again, all the menace gone. He said casually, almost dismissively, "We'll teach you what we can—because no one's stupid enough to go with you. It's noting personal, but no one wants to die because they stood next to a guy named Link."

"I understand—I would not expect them too."

"There's just..." he grinned, "_One_ thing."

Link's stomach dropped, "What?"

"We're not cutting you out of that zip-tie."

"What?!" his head snapped to Larry, who froze, sheepishly in front of the refrigerator. Link glared at him, head twisted at an uncomfortable angle, mouth in a frown. Larry had a flipping _sandwich. _He was tied up, starving, and plunging head first in a life of crime and that asshole had a sandwich. Right in front of him.

Sure it was a beef sandwich, but _still._

"Don't worry." he answered, "It's easy. I can walk you through it. Slip your hands up front, you know how to do that, right?"

Still glaring at him, Link stood up and slipped his legs through the loop made by his arms.

"Now—" he took a bite of his sandwich, "Now move the ring things are in the space between your wrists."

That was a longer process, he had to use his teeth for it. Next he was instructed to use his teeth to pull the plastic bands beyond the point that he could stand it, the point where his fingers tingled and turned an angry red—then he had him slam it all down, hands, wrists, and zip-ties, onto his hip bones to break himself free. He had to use so much force it hurt and the impact bit into his skin, but the plastic snapped.

He was sure there was some kind of deep, symbolic meaning to it. His soul, the dies to his old life, liberation form law-abiding. Something. A little bit of blood came from the back of his left hand, the color rushed from his fingers and a pins-and-needles feeling flooded in. He rubbed his wrists, with small circles on the backs.

"You look half starved."

"Haven't eaten in a while." Link replied.

"Oh!" Larry got the bread out again.

"No!" Link said quickly. They looked at him strangely, "Not beef."

"Okay."

So Larry made him a chicken sandwich with out any question. That was not much help—not really. Rye bread, though—that did help. It was dark and fibrous. The best he had ever tasted, even if the gravity of the choice he had just made was turning his stomach into obstinate knots and constricting his throat, making it impossible to swallow.

"You sure you don't want rum in that?"

"I'm sure." Link said before taking a swig of dark cola. He considered it, though—what was a little under-aged drinking? What was it compared to everything _else_? Nothing. It was nothing. He held the glass over the counter and did not bother saying he had never had alcohol before. He grimaced at the off taste, and did not bother saying he would never have it again.

It loosened his throat, though, which let him scarf down the sandwich faster. It gave him a little time to think. As long as he _was_ doing illegal things, he should find out who did this to Aryll, and break his legs. How would he go around investigating that, though? If it was not Ganondorf's doing, which was unlikely, really—he was a dictator, not a mass murderer—then the culprit would be found swiftly and dispatched. But if it was—what if it was?—then it would be kept quiet. And if it was? That would mean he would find the answers at the source—Hyrule Public Water Commission.

It would take a while for him to be able to break into _there_.

He finished off his meal, and expected something more to be said, but the Moblin Boss had gone back to his film—Link had defeated Ganondorf for all time. He was not bound, blinded, quartered, or shot this time. He followed Larry into a poorly-lit trailer park. Somewhere, a dog barked. They climbed into the car, Link riding shotgun, and they went back to the hospital. They did not say much—just that he would sometimes get messages from either Larry himself or a Ruto mailman that occasionally went into his neighborhood and knew the importance of discretion. Usually those would be summons to head to the Dentist's office by the club, which was more of an exclusive lounge, because that was the boss' day job.

"Explains the perfect teeth."

"Yeah." Larry nodded.

He let him off by the front desk of the hospital, which was closer to the maternity ward and ICU than the emergency room. The maternity ward's doors swung open, and Link caught a glimpse of a sign on the inside of the door. A poster that read _Ganondorf would like to remind you that there are plenty of names other than Link,_ and there was a supposed list of names other than "Link." Link went on to the front desk, where he asked about his sister, and then he asked about the bill.

The nurse told him it would be impossible to tell right now—they would get a bill when she was released—and she was in room 321. Link was not satisfied with that answer, but he did not say a word about it. He went to Aryll's room, entered as quietly as he could. The lights were off, no one said a word, but of course not it was four in the morning now, possibly later. What was tomorrow? No—what was today? Nayrusday. He did not have work until eight—and it was close. A fifteen minute walk. He should get some sleep. He moved a chair slightly.

Marin's head snapped up, she said, a little relieved, a little angry, "Link."

"Hey." he offered timidly.

"Where were you?"

He did not answer fully. She saw he was hiding something. Her dark eyes narrowed and her full lips thinned into a pursed, frustrated pout. She demanded, "What?"

"Something."

He sat down beside her and changed the subject, "What did they say?"

"She'll be here for two weeks—and we'll have to pay for it." she leaned forward and lowered her voice even more, "How are we going to pay for it?"

He looked at Aryll on the bed and did not say a word. He could have told exactly what he did, but he did not want her to know. She would be mad at him—he hated it when she was made at him. He hated it when anyone was mad but Marin was the worst, and Aryll did not count, because she never got mad at him, or anyone, but if she did get mad he would hate that, too.

"Link?"

He shrugged, "I'm sorry—I don't know."

"You've been drinking." It was not a question.

"Yes."

There was no point in lying about that. She knew what alcohol smelled like. She had gotten used to it on her father's breath, when he came around, trying to shame her and shake her down for cash. It rarely worked. Sometimes she kicked him out, because she was twenty and legally free of him—other times it was Link because he was around and even though she was three years older, he was still physically stronger. She threw off the blanket and said, "I didn't know you drank."

"I don't—I was just drinking."

"How are we going to pay for this?"

Link was too tired and too buzzed to try to mask the truth. He leaned against her shoulder and tucked his feet under him, muttering, "I took care of it."

* * *

A. Smoking kills.

B. Always drink legally and responsibly.

C. Yes SHUT UP I know they're Cucoos but "Cucoo Sandwich" just sounded WEIRD okay? And it_ completely ruined the mood_—So lets just say its like cow-beef/pig-ham/deer-venison animal has a different name from the meat.


	3. Chapter 3

Interlinking

(Disclaimed)

Sorry it was late—I decided to change the ending on Friday-update days will move to Fridays, too. I have a permanent engagement on Thursday nights, so it makes updating a hassle. Also-I flipping hate editing, so that might have something to do with it.

Some time this month, there may not be an update, I have final papers in all four classes.

* * *

Chapter three:

Clever Marin had brought a change of clothes.

The water was safe here, so they had said. She had gotten up early and taken a shower. When Link woke up, she was sitting in the chair she had slept in, pinning her hair back by memory, clearly not burned by the mysterious acid. She sat on the very edge of the seat, knees pressed together like a proper lady. She was wearing a pretty, faded purple dress and a good pair of shoes—nicer than the boots he had given her when he outgrew them. They were freshly polished, with half-inch kitten heels and a strap over the arch of her foot, brown and second hand, but new for her, and a little roomy, big enough for her to freely wiggle her toes. She wore nylon stockings with them to hid the fact that she had not gotten around to shaving last night, as she usually did.

She rolled her ankle with a little crack, and then she saw he was awake.

"Morning." She said, opening a hairpin with her teeth, "Brought clothes for you."

It was dark out. He asked, "What time is it?"

"Seven." she said. She was wrapping the lose strands of hair into barrel curls around her bun.

She worked in a ladies lingerie shop in a better, close, part of town on Nayrusday, Dinsday and Vitasday. She liked that job—she got a discount on everything in the store, and it gave her an excuse to wear nicer clothes—of course, some of the dresses had been her mother's, so they were a bit out of style, but Marin did not mind. She liked the old cuts, she called them timeless, classy, and she often got many complements from the older ladies that came to the shop, which made them like her—which helped her make a sale, which got her a commission. If he had any foresight, he would have brought his work uniform on his own—he worked at Ordon Grocery today—the uniform was a blue polo, and it was the only shirt he had that fit him properly. At least Marin had thought of it for him.

What was the weather going to be like today?

"Link—" she dropped her hands from her hair and folded them neatly in her lap, "Look—Don't wait for me. Just take the bus on home. I'll take a cab."

"What?"

"I'm starting another job—just tonight—in a cafe that is not far from the shop. It runs late, later than your shift, but with Aryll—" she stopped herself, "It's not because of Aryll, it's just a nice coincidence that I got it in time. Everything from that job will go to her treatment." she paused, "Well, everything that can. So don't wait."

He would just get away from the Moblins a little faster, then.

"Okay." he said, "I was going to come back here, though—take a later bus home."

"I have a long lunch break—I'm sure the manager will let me take a little while longer to go see her."

Link did not know her manager. He did not really even know the name of where she worked. He knew what it looked like, and where it was, it was just written in some overly-fancy lettering that he could not read. He would never be able to point out the manager on the street, either. He took her word for it.

He uncurled his legs and he was assaulted by a horrible pins and needles feeling from his knees downwards. He showered, and changed into the clothes Marin had brought from home. She had folded them up and put them in the cabinet. She had gotten extra tooth brushes and deodorant from the nurses station, too. He scrubbed off his boots with water and a disposable towel and wore them inside the jeans. They would rub uncomfortably for the entire day, but it would be better if no one in the store saw the unsightly stains.

He roughly shook his damp hair out, fluffing it up with his fingers, but making it no more dry. It was warm enough to go with out his hat, and it was against dress code at the store, so he left it, and his jacket, draped over the chair, with his dirty clothes wrapped up on the seat. Aryll was still asleep, and he supposed a promise of return would be better than waking her up just to leave.

They left the room together and walked down the hallway in tense silence. Marin was not going to let it die. She was going to say something about where he went. If she asked, he would be left in childish, fearful shame. There was no way he was going to say a single word about it on his own. She was watching him, and he could see her watching him as they walked down the hall an unusually slow pace; they had never had an opportunity to take their time like this, and he did not want to let her know how badly he wanted to run away. He watched his boots on the shiny tile floor, between the broken lines made be two rows of florescent white lights, and listened to Marin's heels to his right, just behind him.

"Link." she called out to him when the doors of the stairwell closed behind them. The light was harsher here, the floor not as clean, either, a line of grime, an amalgamation of dirt and gunk, edged the stairs, along the rubber coating on the ledges. The paint was peeling on the banister and there were no windows.

His stomach turned into a knot. He looked down the stairs, he looked up. They were completely alone. No one would hear them. Here it comes, "Yes?"

Her voice echoed off of the white walls, she asked, feigning casual curiosity as she took the two steps to catch up to him, "Where _did_ you go last night?"

_Choose your words carefully._ He thought to himself, "Out." he answered.

"Out _where_?" she pressed. She was not mad anymore—or, if she was, she was acting like she was not. Link did not want to dissect her tone today. She was probably mad. It was safe to assume it.

"It's not your business." he started walking again.

"Oh?" she demanded because she was twenty and he was seventeen and he had gotten alcohol underage last night, so it _was_ her business, "It's not?"

"No." he insisted. He quickened his pace on the stairs."It's not."

There was that pressing silence of hers again. She matched his new speed and kept up with him. She tried again in a gentler tone, "What did you do?"

"It doesn't matter." Link insisted.

"Link!" She reached forward and grabbed his wrist, she looked angry for a second, then she saw something written on his face, either guilt or fear or shame, he did not know which. He was pretty sure they were all there. She relaxed and her hand became less aggressive and more reassuring, "We'll be fine. I want you to know that—" she smiled, "Don't do anything stupid, and we'll be okay."

His hand tightened on the banister and his eyes slid away from hers. He had already done something stupid, and he knew it. The goal now was to not die, and never let her know. That still seemed doable. He relaxed his hand and assured himself that there was no way she could have found out. The cab driver would not have returned to the hospital just to tell her where he had dropped him off, right? He would keep it a secret.

What if he had?

Link did not want to ask. They had stopped on the landing of the first floor. Outside, he heard the occasional mumble from the front lobby beyond the door. He did not want to just callously jerk his wrist away from her—that would make her more suspicious. He waited, not meeting her eyes, until she gave up and let him go. He headed for the double doors under the exit sign. He felt bad about lying to Marin—and he knew already he had started down a long road paved with bad choices—but what made him feel even worse was the knowledge that _it was still the best choice_.

Marin gave up trying to speak to him until they exited the clear glass double doors with the words _Emergency Room, Maternity Ward, _and_ Outpatient Services, _with arrows pointing to the left, right, and left again etched into the glass. She grabbed his arm again and said, "I'll see you tonight—Do you have money for breakfast?"

"Right—Yes."

She gave him a quick, searching stare, and squeezed his arm slightly to keep him from running off just yet. He tried not to meet her eyes at first, but once he did, he knew he was caught. She knew he was hiding something. She knew where he had gone last night was important, and he figured it _was_ pretty obvious. He took his arm out of her hand and repeated, "See you tonight."

She frowned, blue eyes narrowing. She gently brushed a heavy lock of red hair back from her of her forehead—it fell right out. She became a bit more aggressive, hooking it back behind her rounded ear. "Okay."

They went separate ways, Marin to the left, curving around the side of the large hospital, Link across the parking lot, occasionally glancing back at the building. It was about four stories high and made of rosy-brown brick, white concrete, and glass. There were only about three empty spaces that did not belong to doctors, and every light had a security camera attached to them. He knew they worked. He kept his head down, crossed the strip of pavement that lead in to the parking lot, and got onto the wide sidewalk.

He wove through a crowd as he turned the corner, carpooling business folk, judging from the clothes and quick pace, heading for the office building that was about a block away. The side walks were wider in this part of town, the traffic fast and heavy. It was early still, it was good that he was constantly early. He passed by a coffee shop and remembered that he had not eaten yet—and he really should. He had time for coffee and a bagel. He went inside and saw a very bored, tired looking young man behind the glass counter, elbow on the side counter by the espresso machine, hand on his chin, covered in patchy, strawberry-blonde stubble. His eyes were firmly fixed on the screen of his laptop.

Link ordered a plain bagel with unflavored cream cheese and a black coffee.

He said, with out really thinking it, "Sheesh, that's so _boring._"

"Well it's so over-priced."

The young man looked up at nothing, then turned to Link. He gave him a once-over and laughed. It seemed genuine enough. He stepped away from his laptop just long enough to ring up his order and prepare it for him, every now and then glancing about, as if to make sure no one was sneaking a peek at his screen. When he was done and the paper rupees had changed hands, he went right back to his laptop. Link sat in the furthest corner from him, trying not to spy on what he was doing. He was intently searching for something on that computer. Eventually—when Link was about halfway done with his bagel—he cursed, slapped the counter, and yanked out the memory stick he was searching. He opened a drawer, reached for a plastic bag _filled_ with memory sticks, and tried a new one, putting the used one in a mostly-empty bag, he went back to his searching and meaningless, tetchy muttering.

Link tipped well.

He walked another block and he could see Ordon Grocery. He cut trough the parking lot and circled around the back, down the narrow alley between the building and the fence that separated it from one of Din's larger Temples. He went through the delivery door into the stockroom. The place was stacked floor to ceiling with packages of bottled water, with just a narrow gap between them from the delivery door and the main door, and another to the two back freezers. The manager paused for a second of barking orders to shout at him, "Close the door! You think I want the world to see I've got all that?" he swept his hand as grandly as he could in the narrow space. He was right. Link shut the door quickly and clocked in. "Produce." he was ordered, "Now. You need gloves—you look like shit."

"Aryll was—um, I spent the night in the hospital."

"I'm so sorry to hear that." he said. He gave him a slight tap on the shoulder, "Are you okay to work?"

"Yes." Link replied, taking the gloves that the manager offered him, they were long enough to cover up to his elbows, "Yes, she's fine. I'm okay."

He went to the produce section where other employees were bagging the entire stock by the walls—it was mostly green vegetables, the stuff that was on display and sprinkled with cold water every forty-five minutes to keep it fresh-looking and chilled. It must have been sprayed with the contaminated water—or maybe the manager just did not want to take the risk. It all had to go. The trays had to be cleaned out with water that had been prepackaged and a magnesium solution to neutralize the acid, then re-filled with what little they had left or had been shipped in earlier that morning. The sprinkler system was shut off, and the duty to manually spray them was passed to Link. He did not mind.

They threw the gloves away and tossed the old produce out into the dumpster out back. Link was pretty sure that was not the best way to dispose of it, but he did not know a better one. The point was the mistake was covered and no one else would be poisoned. Of course, the place was poorly stocked and it showed.

But no one really noticed, because no one went to the produce section—they went right for the bottles of water the manager had cleverly placed in a few stacks at the front of the store. Every now and then, when there was a pause in the crowd, employees would bring more from the back and stack it up, never letting on that they had a stockroom filled with the stuff. The manager seemed to anticipate a riot over it—one never happened.

The employees all took advantage of the extra stock and laid claim to as many cases as they could carry—unfortunately for Link, he was the only one that depended on his legs and buses to get around—he could only manage one on his own. He did not know what they would do with out water to drink. Through the day, when there was not music or gossip on the radio, he heard from the speakers that Ganondorf was making a big display of aiding the poorer communities, handing out rations of water. It was a shame no one would be at their house to claim any of it.

It did not _seem_ like he was the culprit.

If there were riots, they were hushed up quickly, and they certainly did not happen in _this_ part of town. Perhaps it was a move on Ganondorf's part to make himself look good? Perhaps he did not seem like the culprit because he was trying very hard to make it look like the case. Link sprayed the cabbages lined up along the shelf, wondering. It could not be, though. It was bold—and too stupid, for that matter. It could have backfired horribly and had gone much, much worse. The water could have ended up in the wealthier parts of town, right?

Well—it would not have been that bad, then, right? Things were better over there—medical care better and word might travel faster. He did not know. It was certainly less crowded. He thought about how packed that emergency room had been, it would have cut down on the drama and show of the situation. The more he thought about it, the more it confused him. If it was a deliberate, calculated attack by a citizen, they would have gone straight for the wealthier class, it would send a bigger message across the city, and wealthier people were more likely to be allied with Ganondorf—it had a chance of crippling his infrastructure.

An attack on the poor—who benefited? Ganondorf. Ganondorf was the one that benefited from this. Not in resources, clearly, though if it was a planned move, it would explain why he had pulled enough water out of thin air to distribute. Link frowned. No, the benefit was in appearances only. Something must be happening. Something big—and Ganondorf wanted people on his side.

He though about Aryll. To the best of his knowledge she was still confined to that bed. He had no idea how bad off she was. There had been _acid_ in that water—the lining of her stomach could have been permanently damaged. He had to get to the bottom of this. When he thought about Aryll, he thought about the water, and that made him think of the girl with the flash drive around her neck, and _that, _strangely enough, made him think of the guy in the coffee shop and his bags of flash drives.

Was he looking for that one in particular? The one she had?

What was on it?

How was Aryll doing? He supposed Marin would get word to him if she got worse... Or the unthinkable happened.

What was on that flash drive?

How had she known about the water, for that matter?

Link paused, hand frozen on the spray bottle and he thought about it. How _had_ she known? Had she been involved? Maybe it was not Ganondorf then—but _who_? Her? No. Link did not want to believe that. She was seventeen, hardly the type to preform an act of terrorism—which is what this was, deliberate, blatant, terrorism. She had a connection, obviously, but he did not think she was the culprit.

"You know, dear, I think all of your wacky cravings have turned out delicious."

Link turned and saw the only two people he had seen in this part of the store the entire day. They seemed to have no idea about the nearing water shortage and not a care in the world, aside from the fact that they were in love, and she was six or seven months pregnant and the weather was lovely today. Link watched the man lean on the cart while she picked through the apples for the best ones—a difficult task, considering what little there was. He pushed it back and forth with his foot.

"Oh, _you_." She smiled broadly and turned to him, wrinkling her narrow little nose up. She set the plastic bag of apples in the cart and yanked his red hunters cap down over his eyes. After they left, no one came. Link worked until about six thirty, past dark. He clocked out and went back to the hospital, got there around seven it took a lot longer because he was bringing the heavy package of water with him, the last bus left the nearest station at nine—he had plenty of time to talk with Aryll.

People went this way or the other way, but they did not move so fast as the occasional nurse. He went to the stairwell, and on the stairs he passed a kid about Aryll's age, with tufts of dark brown hair sticking out from a blue newsboy cap, on the stairway. They did not look at each other, or say a word. The bright blue shirt caught his eye. Not that there was anything of interest on it, even—just an eye catching color. He hurried on, unwilling to meet Link's gaze. He raised a hand to his backpack's strap defensively. Aware of him, deliberately ignoring him. Link did not say a word about it.

Aryll was up, drinking what looked like watered-down, orange colored milk, that obviously did not taste particularly nice. She held the half-empty glass at arms length when she grimaced with a distinct, "Yeach." Link chucked to himself—he was just glad to see her awake. When she saw him, her face lit up brightly, "Big Brother!"

"How are you feeling?"

"Oh, awful." she said plainly, "Everything still hurts—but they've put me on morphine so I don't really feel it. I have to drink this stuff, too—it does..." she paused, she shook her head and turned her round face to him, "Well, its _supposed _to be good for me."

"It's got everything she needs." the nurse beside the bed explained, "Drink up."

Aryll mouthed the words, _It's awful _but she downed it anyway. The nurse threw away the disposable plastic cup and left them in silence, her comfortable, polished sneakers squeaking on the floor. Link asked, "Did Marin come by today?"

She slinked down under the covers, bending her knees, "Yeah." she nodded, "Brought me lunch—but they wouldn't let me eat it. I'm going to be on a liquid diet for a month, they said."

"Really?"

"Yeah—no stomach lining, damaged intestines—" she waved her hand dismissively, "Oh by the goddess' blood, the _pain_."

"I'm so sorry, Aryll."

"You didn't poison me."

"Someone will find out who did it." he said. He took her hand and held it between both of his, "If no one else does, I will."

"Really, big brother?" she grinned. She was clearly in a drug-induced high. Link pushed thoughts of the cost from his mind and smiled back.

"Really."

There was a pause, Aryll looked to her knees, then to the wall, then back to Link, "Is that where you went last night?"

"What?"

"Yeah—I woke up for about half an hour—I was a little groggy, you know, they knock you out pretty heavily when they pump your stomach—and I asked for you, but Marin said you had left. You never told her where you went. Where did you go?"

"W-well..."

Darn it. Marin had him cornered again and she was not even in the room.

"I won't tell her." Aryll promised. She beamed, sensing a juicy secret in the room. She scooted up again, "I promise I won't tell her! Where did you go?"

"Just—" the lie he thought of was so weak it was laughable. "I just went for a walk."

She was disappointed. She huffed, her tongue clicking as she snapped it down from the roof of her mouth. But, she seemed to buy it. She dragged her eyes across the room, swaying her head, "Is that _it_?" she wrinkled her nose again, "That's _all_?"

"Yes."

"Well why didn't you just tell _Marin_ that?" she tilted her head, looking back at him, "Come _on_, bro, you really dropped the ball there—making her stress out like that."

"Well, you know how Marin is—how much she cares. When she's worried, she can't help but work herself up. She would never have believed something that simple anyway. She always worries—sometimes though, its not over nothing. She doesn't tend to worry over nothing."

"No, she doesn't. You're right." Aryll nodded in agreement, "And you can't sit still when you're stressed out—so I guess if she hears it from _me,_ she'll believe it."

Link wanted to change the subject. He looked around—there wasn't much too talk about, except for the muted television. They had not watched it in years—they went to the cinema when the had the time and money, when an interesting title was playing on Hyliasday or late Vitasday. "Seen anything good?"

"No." she shook her head, "Been watching the news, though."

"What do they say?"

"This and that—one channel said it was in industrial accident in the morning, but then they said it was an act of terrorism around lunch time—then they got cut off for a little while, ran a lot of commercials, and came back saying it was an industrial accident and focused a lot on what Ganondorf was doing to help. They've got it under control, now—they say the water will be safe to drink by next Gildenday."

Link looked at the case of water by the chair he was sitting in—it would not last that long.

"Don't you think that's odd?"

"What?"

"Changing the story?" she prodded, "Don't you think it's odd?"

"Oh. Yes." Link looked back to her, "Very odd."

Considering the section of town that was more industry-focused was no where near where they lived, or Aryll's school; or even the public water treatment plant, yes, it was very odd. Must have been a pretty big accident. Link slumped back in the chair, crossed his arms, and thought deeply about it—but really, it did not shed any new light on the situation. It still only served to make Ganondorf look good—though perhaps insisting that it was an accident when it was clearly not served to keep people from panicking, and that could help him root out the culprits—unless Ganondorf himself had done it. Which was likely.

"What are you thinking about?"

"N-nothing." he straightened up again, "You want me to bring anything from home for you when I come back tomorrow?"

"My backpack." She gestured to a short stack of papers on her nightstand, "I'm supposed to do that before I go back to school. Don't have a pencil. Or my books. If you could drag that up here, it'd be nice."

* * *

Can't edit, too boring. Link move faster, GOSH!

Least he finds the sword next chapter but STILL.


	4. Chapter 4

Interlinking

(Disclaimed)

Oh what a strangely appropriate fanfic to start around Easter—actually. Fancy that.

It wasn't deliberate.

I forgot Easter was a thing.

Happy Easter, tho.

* * *

Chapter four:

Beedle's shop operated out of a grey van. The engine ratted and the exhaust smelled like the gasoline did not burn all the way—but the two had been though a lot together so he kept her. Her name was Bessie—apparently. Beedle was a skinny fellow with a long face and a bulbous nose which had a long smear of grease running from the side, over his cheek, and under his left eye. He would drive the van—_Bessie, _he was adamant about it—all around the city, with his goods in the back, sometimes he lugged larger things around on a trailer, but always on commission and never for free. Link and Larry sat on his trailer, watching the sun set behind a pile of old, rusted cars. There was a sudden bump, Beedle swore, and slapped the side of the car roughly, by the battery. They heard him heave a sigh, the small, hissing kind between pursed lips.

He walked past them, a greasy hand to the crown of his head. He took it out of his hair and examined it. No blood. He washed his hands off with heavy-duty hand cleaner, the kind for getting old engine oil off of hands that used as little water as possible. He shook his hands off, then wiped them off on a towel, going all the way up his skinny, sun-kissed forearms. They were sprinkled with freckles like raindrops on a window, and little scars clung on like leaves on the glass. Some were old, some were fresher. He had a bright red nick, half the size of a fingernail halfway up his left forearm that began bleeding anew when he rubbed it with the towel. He was missing some skin on two knuckles where he had sheered it off working on the car recently. He chugged the rest of the water bottle down.

"Going well?" Larry asked.

"Oooh, well as it can." Beedle answered.

"What's the trouble?"

"Eeeeh." he replied with a shrug and did not say what. Instead he muttered, "Dinner." He went into his little mobile home. It was capable of latching onto the back of his van, should he ever have to relocate again. It was not likely to happen. Beedle had truly found his niche when he gotten the scrapyard. Link had no idea how he had managed it, perhaps he had won it in a card came, or some other wager—perhaps it had been a payment or a trade, though Link had no idea what Beedle had possessed of equal value—perhaps fifteen acres or something more useful, like farmland.

He certainly was not unhappy here. Beedle, of course, was not the only one that would live in the scrapyard—and he was certainly not the first. It was not difficult to find little lean-tos and shanties dotted around, just sitting there, Link could see three—but it was just Beedle right now, living here. He used it as a holding spot for his bigger deliveries—when he had a length of time between obtaining the order and handing it off. Sometimes, what he sold was not completely legal, but Beedle was a fellow that could get anything for you—if you paid him enough. He was far from unscrupulous, fortunately—he would never buy or sell anything with a heartbeat. Faries, rare animals, and humans were things he never trafficked around. Stolen goods and family heirlooms were fair game, though, and he had stories. He would sit down and tell them on slow days to anyone who cared to ask—though Link did not like to hear them, because they sometimes ended with items that had been used by the Hero of Time being dropped right into the hands of Ganondorf. Beedle, occasionally, worked hand in hand with the King of Evil, and yes, Link hated that. Perhaps that was even how he obtained the scrapyard-but Link forgave him, because he was not evil, and he would do very good things.

Just the other day he had gotten home after worrying about what they would do about the water they needed—and it was already there. Courtesy of Beedle.

Larry had to ask him, of course, but the fact that he did it still counted for something.

He was getting close to seventy now, Beedle was—but you would never think it to look at him. There was only a little salt in his peppery hair, and he had been afflicted with no palsy, arthritis, or dementia—the only signs of age were the looseness of his skin and the saw blade-like protrusion of his spine when he stooped over. He did not look older than fifty. He had owned this scrapyard for a full thirty years and it was the one story he refused to tell. It was a great place for him. Sure it smelled like gasoline and engine oil, and that made Link a little dizzy, but it was one of the few places in town were the surveillance did not work which was why it had been so popular with the Moblins and other derelicts.

And, with its its abandoned cars, open spaces, and abundance of scrap metal, it was a perfect training ground and makeshift workshop. Link reached between him and Larry and picked up the metal lockout tool, a thin strip of metal used for forcing open car locks. He would get better at opening car windows with out tripping the alarm, certainly with a spot like this to practice in. They were unlikely to be bothered by the secret police, and the standard police force would never bother snooping around. They knew what lurked around here.

Today did not feel like spring—it felt like the middle of summer, burning hot. It was Hyliasday, the day almost everyone took off. He had visited Aryll in the morning with Marin, but he had opted out of the grocery shopping and headed here to meet with Larry, like he had been ordered too. The heat was not really anything abnormal, it was two in the afternoon, with no clouds in the sky and a high humidity—it was very warm. The occasional breeze came through the valleys of the scrapyard, bringing with it the smell of old oil and metal, but also a cool puff of air that ruffled his damp hair. When a breeze came by he ruffled it up, to try to get a little of the cooling wind on his scalp. It did not really wok as well as he would like. He took a sip of water—he was trying to conserve it.

Larry gave his shoulder a light bop, "You ready to go again?"

Link looked towards a sheltered structure made of hastily welded scrap metal. It was about eight feet high, ten by ten feet for floor space—though floor was loosely applied here. It was no visible from the main entrance. There was no floor, and only three walls made of small-holed lattice and metal struts. It was tightly riveted and welded to a roof of patch-worked metal pieces. Two slits were cut into the metal, and from those two slits hung a stack of five old tires that were lashed together and suspended by a basic barrel hitch. Link looked at his hand. His first two knuckles still bore the imprint of the treads.

Larry had filled the hot afternoon with little tidbits of advice, like n_ever throw a punch with you dominant hand, you'll probably just break your fingers._ And _don't aim for the cheek or jaw—you'll definitely break your fingers. _And _good rule of thumb is "avoid breaking your other fingers." _And_ never underestimate the power of a good knuckle duster. _Things like that. _Don't fight with principle obviously no one else will. Power comes from the hips—low center of gravity, means a bigger impact, so shortness works for you. Don't assume a girl can't fight—but don't go out of your way to give her a reason too, because no one wants to be the weakling that gets beat up by a girl-and no one wants to be the asshole that beats up one._ And; n_ever throw the first punch—and always dodge the first hit._

It was sound advice, all of it. Link would try very hard to remember it all when he was getting his teeth knocked out. He really would.

"No." he shook his head. He got to his feet and stretched. A perfect breeze kicked up and ran along his back. He rolled his shoulders out and let his arms swing at his sides. "I'm going for a walk."

"Okay."

Link walked away from him and looked around. He felt off. Like the the scrapyard was some scene he was viewing from outside of his own body. He walked through the piles of scrap metal, rubber tires, boarded-up and hopefully empty refrigerators. He felt like there was something to be found around here somewhere—but he had no idea what. He walked around for a bit, and when he saw an old tan car suspended by its front axle on a rusty crane, he felt a strange rush of nostalgia. He stood still and tilted his head, looking up at it as it swung just a tiny bit. It was only six inches or so above the ground. There was something _there._ He just felt it, even though he saw no evidence for it, it was simply in front of a huge mountain of old cars and emptied out electric stoves and refrigerators—bits of cinder blocks and bricks, some still in neat rows with mortar still between them. There was no way there was anything hidden under it. It was a horribly impractical hiding place, suppose someone moved the car? Though, he doubted they would. The chain was rusted solid, probably rusted to the axle, too. His eyes followed the chain upwards, the crane itself was rusted, too, it would be a lot of effort to clean it just to move a car, and for what? Spare parts? There were plenty of parts laying around, and scrap, too, he supposed, anything else would be easier to pick off. Perhaps it was a good hiding spot. He paced from left to right along the side of it and around the edges. It was too heavy for him to lift. He got down on his hands and knees and looked under it with his ear to the ground. He expected to see more junk, but there was none. There was darkness beyond, like an entry way.

He got up again, dusted himself off, and climbed the pile of junk to get to the control box for the crane. It was barely possible for him to get in, the window was open, covered by an electric range that had been emptied of its heating elements. He pushed it aside a few inches and dropped through the widow into the seat. It looked about fifty years old inside, possibly more. Not a lot of dust inside, but a few little skulltula webs, some of them had died of starvation. On a wild guess, he reached for one lever and pulled it. Below his feet there was a sudden thunk and the front of the car swung upwards, until it was teetering dangerously on only its back wheels.

"Oh." He climbed out again, pushed the range back for good measure, and half-slid down the mountain of scrap metal. He went back to the rusted car and looked down the passage way. It was just big enough for him to shimmy through, and dug out slightly so he could stand up straight, while still allowing it to be hidden by the car. Curious, he climbed down. It was almost completely dark inside, and it smelled much different from the rest of the scrapyard. No engine oil, antifreeze, gasoline, or Freon. This smelled like chemicals Link could not name. He placed his hand on the wall—it was the same metal grating the little boxing gym had been made out of, and well enforced to keep it from buckling and collapsing under the weight off all of the scrap metal on top of it. He wondered if there was something inside that would allow him to hide the door again. He felt along the walls until he found a little open cubbyhole, where there was a weight that had been displaced by he lever he had pulled. It was also too heavy for him to lift, but he found another lever that cranked it back upwards slowly, hiding him again and cutting off the light. Link followed the passageway about three yards or so, until the little light from the outside had begun to fade away, but by that time he was able to see a narrow beam of light coming from the ceiling of the dug out. He stopped directly below it and looked up. There was a hole above his head, a narrow shaft that went all the way up to the top of the pile of metal waste, it channeled hot air up and allowed light to come down.

Casually kicked to the side was a shiny metal bowl that was turned upside down. He nudged it back under the light, so that it reflected the light and illuminated the entire hideout. He looked around and voiced a very important question, "Who _made_ this?"

They had been short, whoever they were, the ceiling was low, and Link could easily reach up and brush his fingers against it. Also, it had not been used for years_._ Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust. The place was dimly lit, dark and cool, and built entirely out of scavenged junk. The desk was missing a leg and was supported by a cinder block, the table was leaning slightly because the legs were bent out of shape, but it was mostly flat. There was an old lawn chair with peeling blue paint and a dusty upholstered cushion that had seen better days, use had flattened it out. A long, bench car-seat that had been torn out of a truck served as a couch—the metal that fitted into the car was buried in the dirt, so it was immovable. It was bound by a seat cover, and Link could see the faux leather upholstery underneath was split open and weathered down. It was covered with a thin cotton sheet and a couple of blankets, and had another upholstered cusion.

Next to it was a blue plastic cooler filled with old plastic bottles of water, flat soda and stale beer it had probably gone to vinegar by now, surely—or what ever beer became when it was left alone for too long. He could not trust anything, considering it was all sitting in and inch and a half of grimy, stagnant water. He closed it again quickly—he would have to do something with it when he cleaned the place up, and he would clean it up, he thought to himself. No one had come by in quite a while—why not make it his own? He already felt quite attached to it. He fully sympathized with the cork board across from him that was littered with black and white photographs of Ganondorf, his affiliates, and old, dusty darts.

Link's eyes fell back on the desk and he recognized the set up—it was for developing pictographs. The entire place doubled as a dark room. Link looked up at the ceiling by the tunnel of light. There was a dusty red lens waiting to be swiveled in front of it. Link moved it and the dugout was filled with red light. He moved it back again. There was a stack of pictographs on the desk, next to the pictobox that had taken them—it was about thirty years old. The pictographs were fanned out slightly, as if they were hastily dropped, and like the hand that set them down had intended to come back. Link picked them up and held them to the light. They were just of people, no one Link recognized, certainly, but he knew the place, it was the middle of town, around Ganondorf's stronghold, actually. It was in the center of everything, surrounded by nice restaurants and museums. He was already well hidden behind a high cement wall, so he feared nothing. Features in the back ground were circled in red marker. When Link recognized similar features in each one, he started to lay them all out, moving from the desk to the floor when he realized he would need more room, fitting them images together until they formed a choppy panorama of the fortress, cleverly disguised as casual pictures.

Well—all except for the ones that were just of a cute camera shy blonde—they really were just casual pictures.

This was not just a darkroom—it was not just a little retreat. It was a secret base.

Link got to his feet and he began to notice more details-the radio on the desk was tuned to a station. He did not know the station that used the wave signal it was tuned to—next to it was a police radio scanner and a notepad—all of the previous pages had been torn out, leaving only little scraps. A grocery list had been written on one—Link doubted the previous tenant had ever gone. A map of the city was spread out on the table and areas were circled swiftly in red-three of them were crossed out, each red 'X' had been marked with more anger and feeling than the last. Over it there was a cork board leaning against the wall, covered with more old pictographs—whoever had been here, they were doing _something_ important. Link guessed the one on Ganondorf's strong hold had gone poorly. He looked down at the map more closely. It was the only spot on the map that was not crossed out. He could hardly believe it, though. He looked across to the desk used for developing the pictures and carefully made his way back, edging around the still laid out panorama on the dirt floor. He had yellowed paper folders of pictographs squirreled away in the drawers, neatly sorted and closed with strings. He had taken pictographs of many places that were important to Ganondorf. Dig sites, construction projects, things like that.

There was even a folder dedicated to the lovely, camera-shy blonde. Many of the photographs had been taken at her complete surprise, others with out her knowledge, but nothing dishonorable. Sure, the other ones were interesting, but Link liked these more—she was pretty. He wondered why there was not a single picture of the person who had owned the camera and had obviously hung their hat and kicked off their shoes here so many times before. It seemed incomplete with out one. He looked back to the pictures of the girl he had left on the floor when he was assembling the puzzle panorama. He knelt down and slipped them inside the file with the rest of her pictures. He turned the file over, dusting it off and wondering why the other person had never labeled a single one. Probably because he-or, possibly _she_, in all fairness-already knew the girl's name. Just because Link wanted to know it did not give him any right to that information.

While he was on the dirt floor again, he saw a gleam—it came from a little space under the car seat. Link looked under, and then risked reaching inside. His hand found something cool to the touch, slim, and bound in smooth leather and paracord.

Usually you found skin mags hidden under strange couches.

Odd.

He closed his fingers around it and carefully worked it out. It was boomerang cut from scrap metal, painted white, and varnished to make it last, and bound in leather at the joint. He tested the weight in his hand—it was heavy. Heavy enough to hurt someone. The leather was meant to provide grip against the rope that was wrapped around it, so it could double as a grappling hook. He looked back at the couch. There was more back there. He just knew it. He jerked the blankets off and saw a little lever—the kind meant to bend the whole thing over. He pushed it down and the seat folded easily—and there were the weapons, dusty, but there. He reached for the bow first—it was made of thin metal rods and pulleys, covered in rust-resistant black paint. The arrows were solid aluminum, too, the 'feathers' in the fletchings were plastic and meant to last, the tips were steel. Link drew tested the bow string, it pulled back easy, but had a great deal of tension and potential energy stored up—it was nice, but everyone else was using guns, the bow was kind of useless—he doubted he would ever be able to throw the boomerang, too. There was also a makeshift melee hammer made of old pipes and filled with sand to make it heavier in the hand, and like the bow, it was covered in rust-resistant paint—that he could use.

And last of all, there was a sword made of steel pipe.

He stared at it for a little more and was not sure what he was feeling at the moment. He set the hammer down and picked it up.

It was slightly shorter than his leg, the blade going from hip to ankle and the hilt extending and ending just below his ribs. The hilt was bound in a layer of leather, then a layer of blue para cord to make the grip a little more comfortable, and it, too, was filled with sand to add weight. Link curled his fingers around it and lifted it from its hiding place. The tip ended with a rounded stopper that had been filed down into a point. It could stab, Link knew by testing the weight that it would break bones. If he dropped the pommel on someone's knee, it was sure to break it, and a hard enough hit could shatter ribs, and if the opponent was unarmed or holding just a knife, it would have a definite advantage.

It had not rusted, it was made to last. The leather was still good, but the para-cord around the hilt needed to be replaced. Link ran his fingers over the hand guards, which were made with wide-angle fittings, painted blue, echoing the Master Sword of Legend, and thought to himself how well it seemed to fit into his hand.

He lightly touched the sharpened tip of the sword with the middle finger of his right hand, no blood was drawn, but that did not mean drawing it would be impossible. Still—it somehow felt like a cheap imitation of and old friend, and not the genuine article—it was clearly no Master Sword, just meant to look like one. It would be too difficult to carry around the city, considering the weight, and how much it would stand out—carrying something like this would be illegal; so the charges in question would be disturbing the peace, conspiracy against Ganondorf, and possession Hero of Time paraphernalia (yes—that is a real crime) and _being named Link._

This must be some kind of inside joke.

He sighed with a little smile, "His name was _Link _wasn't it?" he asked the sword, then his smile fell and he frowned, and a sense of reverence washed over him—it wasn't _the_ Link, was it? The Hero of Time himself? He had stood here just—how many years ago? Fifty? Sixty? Possibly longer—but suddenly it felt like it had just been the blink of an eye. His hands tightened on the sword, one hand on the hilt, the other on the dull blade. This place had been here untouched for that entire time—was he really the first person to find it again?

How cool was _that?!_

"Well—_shit_." Link dusted off his knees and shins, "Going to be—what? Another fifty years until he comes back?" he asked no one, never considering that he had found this place for an entirely different reason, because he was the Hero of Time, and part of him had known it was here—part of him knew this scrapyard like the back of hand because in a past life it had been his.

This Link—the present Link—did not care about that. He put the arsenal where it belonged, blew off the lens of the pictobox and cleaned it with his sleeve. He looped the old macrame strap around his neck, and wondered if there was still film inside—and how to develop pictographs. A wave of thrill ran up his spine and down his fingers as he turned it over in his hands, and, on sheer whim, he took out the replica of the master sword to show Larry and Beedle—because, come on, it was _awesome_.

He dropped the weight down again to raise the car again and left the hideout. He set the sword and pictobox down, crawled back into the crane's control box and dropped the car down again. He went back to Larry and Beedle, they were both sitting on the wooden trailer, sharing a six pack of canned beer.

Beedle was slouched over so far that his head was level with Larry's—whom was so short and squat it did not make a lick of sense—and it looked hilarious. Link giggled to himself as he walked forward, and decided it would be a great time to start a his own collection of pictures—and the pictobox needed to be tested, anyway, it was a full twenty or more years old, after all, it might not work. He stabbed the pipe sword into the ground and raised the pictobox to his eye and captured the image forever—or at least until he could set it free again in the darkroom. With the the bright flash of light the two jumped and blinked. Link watched them through the eyepiece of the box as they tried to find where that light had come from. Eventually, they noticed him standing there with the pictobox still held to his face. Larry was confused at first, and Beedle was intrigued—and it bordered almost on offense.

He gaped at Link, his eyes going from the lamp on the pictobox to the sword he had embedded in the dirt. He opened his mouth slowly and closed it again, thinking deeply, eyes hazed over. Larry was biting back a grin and stifling a deep giggle. Link let the box drop to his chest and lifted the sword up. He continued to walk towards them, the pictobox bouncing against his diaphragm. Larry swallowed his grin, brushed off his big legs and asked, "Where'd you find that old thing?"

"Over there." Link pointed, "There's a hidden place, somebody's old hide out."

"And _that?_" He pointed to the mock sword.

"Well—yeah." Link swung it up and traced his eyes affectionately over the 'blade' "Metal's still good. Figured I'd keep it safe."

"Your Dumpster Sword?"

It might have been meant as a lighthearted insult, but Link took it in stride, "Yes." he replied, almost proud of himself, "The Dumpster Sword."

"This isn't a _dump_." Beedle exclaimed defensively. He stood up and stalked off. Link and Larry watched him as he took a few steps then stopped, turned around, and came back. He snatched the the beer away with him. Larry was bubbling with laughter.

"No—No Beedle, come back. Beedle, don't leave."

Beedle slammed the door of his trailer after giving Larry a rude gesture before he went. Larry took a moment to chill out and stop laughing—Link had no idea why he was giggling so much. There was no way it could be considered as funny as all that, or why Beedle had been made so upset by it. Perhaps it was the beer. Link looked that the four empty cans by Larry—it was probably the beer. He rubbed his chin and asked, "Where was it?"

Link was going to say—he had every intention of telling Larry and Beedle at first, but before he could say, the desire to share it was replaced by a need to keep it safe from every one else. It was _his_ hideout. The Hero of Time's. Link had found it for a reason, and he figured that reason was just to make sure it still existed when he came back into the world. He smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and replied, "Not going to say. He spent a lot of time and effort to keep it hidden—I'm not going to rat him out."

"Fair enough." Larry shrugged, then said to himself, thoroughly please, "_Dumpster Sword._"

Link grinned and shook his head, "Shut up."

* * *

That pun. That pun. Right there. That is the reason this fic exists. The Dumpster Sword. I have been sitting on that word play for a year and a half waiting to use it and you will all love it an laugh.


	5. Chapter 5

Interlinking

GOLLY GEE WHOMPERS, GUYS. PLOT.

* * *

Chapter five:

His boss's code name was The Dentist. If he did not like you, he pulled your teeth, no pain killers, no nothing, one by one, until they were all gone, or you had begged for mercy. If he did like you, he would give you a discount on dental work. Link did not need dental work—he sat in the waiting room of his boss' clinic for an entirely different reason—and even if he did, he would not take it. If he was meant to have hooks in his mouth the Goddesses would have made him a fish. His knee bounced nervously as he waited. There was a news program on, noting about the water, though. It was about something else entirely. Something that Ganondorf had put an end to—not something he started, certainly.

That meant he had to get to the water treatment facilities before any evidence was wiped away, it might be too late. It might get worse. It was strange—this was like nothing he had ever heard of. Ganondorf had never done something so... _horrible_ before. Public executions, yes, strict laws, certainly, but mass poisoning? Never that. Or maybe he _had_ it had just never effected him before. He did not know what to think about it, except that it did not matter who was responsible, Aryll could have died, and if that girl had no warned him, he and Marin could have died, too.

He wanted to find her again—pay the debt. It was a freak chance—did that make it nothing, or everything? Why did he care so much? Why did he feel so compelled to find her again? He drummed his fingers on the back of his hand and bounced his knee a little faster. His heart was pounding, his ears were ringing. He had been given a lump sum of one hundred rupees from Larry after had had gotten off work today—and that meant he was to report to the Dentist for his first job. He had bigger things to focus on aside from one girl.

His eyes dragged around the room. It looked pretty normal, considering the secrets the building hid. Sure—most of the staff were Moblins, and so were most of the clients, but none of them looked like the criminal type. The Dentist was an actual dentist and it was very strange, the nurses were actual nurses and he did not know if they were criminals or not. The receptionist might have been an ex-con—but then again, it might just be that she looked like an ex-con. The paper on the walls was boring, dark green and flecks of muted yellow and grey, the carpet matched, but was no identical, and the chairs were either a warm brown leather, or grey and green upholstered, and very comfortable. Link wished that he could sink back into his armchair and relax—because that was clearly what it was meant for—but he could not even stand the _idea_ of being relaxed. He sat pin straight in his chair, his eyes darting from the television screen to the faces around him. They looked perfectly normal. A cop could walk in right now and think nothing amiss at all. There were kids and people that had just gotten off work in the office or the stores, couple of humans.

"Link Smith?"

Here goes nothing.

Slowly, he got to his feet, and he saw everyone's eyes on him. He followed the nurse back and thought to himself,_ she certainly looks like a registered nurse, does she know what her boss does on the side? Does she care? Guess not._

They handled the exchange like a regular visit. He lay down in the chair, she leaned it back clipped a sheet over his chest, and then left the room promptly. Yes, she must know. Link waited. A while later the Dentist—his boss—came in wearing a fresh pair of latex gloves and a fake smile on his face. Now that Link saw him standing and fully clothed, he looked quite normal—just a little chubby. It was amazing what well-fitted clothes and lighting could do for a person. He adjusted the cuffs of his white coat and sat down, "First day on the job."

Link was not sure what to say, so he replied, "Yes."

He sighed with smile, "Right then." he rubbed his gloved hands together, the rubber squeaked. He opened the prepackaged metal tools and spread them out on the little, swiveling table beside the chair. Link shifted uncomfortably, the plastic scraped and scratched against his neck. The Dentist snapped his medical mask up, it was big, big enough to cover those perfectly polished tusks, and put his goggles down, "Open up."

"What?"

"Got a lot of explaining to do—and you haven't been to any doctor in a while, have you?" Under the mask, he was smiling. He picked up one of the sharpened hooks.

"I'm not a fish." he said, opening his mouth as little as possible, he slid away as far as the confines of the chair would allow him.

"Now, now—you only know this will _work _if you cooperate."

He was probably right. He centered himself in the chair, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth. He grimaced at the feel of latex against his face.

"Larry tells me you found some interesting things while you two were in Beedle's scrapyard."

"Yeah." he managed to reply despite the fingers, the mirror and the metal hooks in the way.

"That's good—keep finding interesting things, Link."

"... Okay." he replied slowly.

Then the scraping began, between his teeth, along the gum line, on top of his molars, scrape... scrape... scrape. He focused on the glaring light above him—and occasionally on his reflection in his glasses. There were so many horrible things the Dentist could do to him right now, not just pull his teeth—spear one of those hooks right through his tongue. Stab a drill into his eye. He fought of a bad shake and his knuckles went white on the arm of the chair.

Scrape... Scrape... _Scrape..._

"You've got great teeth." his boss observed, "Ever had braces?"

"No."

"They're almost perfect—" he leaned back "And I see you even manage to floss every now and then."

"Yeah."

"Very nice looking for someone of your _economic_ status."

"Great." Link's voice had become as solid as a brick wall. He was not comfortable with this conversation. What did it matter? Why did it matter? Why was he prolonging this? He just wanted to know what he was supposed to do. He wiped off his hook for the umpteenth time on the disposable gauze bib that was spread over his chest, and then he delved right back in.

This time, at least, he bothered explaining something, "Tonight, the House of Senator Malladus will be empty. It's at the very end of Saria street, uptown."

Link nodded—he knew what he was talking about.

"You're looking for anything you can carry." The Dentist explained, "Go home, get some rest, wake up at about midnight. You know Larry's usual stomping ground around the Temple of Farore?"

He nodded again.

"Head there first—there will be a little motorcycle there, a Catherine with the keys stashed between the fender and the wheel. Take that—get to Malladus' place, and make sure your head's properly covered."

He knew what to do. He knew the motorcycle he was talking about, it passed hands frequently, it was a little dinged up, but it handled smoothly and it worked—and that was what mattered. It had six or more license plates, registered to different people that were not connected with the Moblin gang, that all came from motorcycles they had stolen, and sold for scrap, or cleaned up and re-sold to someone else. The numbers were defunct and reported as stolen—but it was years ago. Link had been given only one driving lesson, but it was no too difficult.

"You're looking for anything you can carry out, however I want you to pay close attention to compact disks and flash drives. Any device that can store data—grab it. Take what ever you like, but those items are the imperative."

He took the hook from Link's teeth and he said, "Okay."

"You've got _great t_eeth." The Dentist praised, he went about his work and polished his teeth up with some annoying, hissing, spinning _thing_, almost obsessively. When that was done, he picked up the hook again and went right back in again.

"Except... for _this_ one." Link's head was filled with an uncomfortable scraping sound as The Dentist dragged his metal hook along one of his lower molars, back and forth, going a little deeper and harder each time like the crevice in the crown was a lock to be picked—and eventually Link began to feel a little pain. "It's got a _hole_." he drug out the word, making it loaded, filled with meaning, "It's not decaying, but—well, it's the weakest link. I don't like weak links, Link. They bring everything down and _break_ at the worst of times, do you know what I mean?"

"Y—yes." Link said. He felt uncomfortable on a deeply psychological level—violated. He tried to focus on something else aside from the mild pain as The Dentist scraped at his tooth. He stopped, wiped the hook off, and scooted away on his rolling stool. He grabbed a bottle of aerosol fluoride and sprayed a bit of the foam on the little work table. He picked up some of it on a cotton swab and spread it around his teeth.

"Now hold that there for a minute."

"B—"

"Ah-ah-ah." The Dentist shoved a beefy, latex-covered finger against his lips. Link nearly gagged—he had been at the plant the entire day and he was _sick_ of the smell of latex. "No."

The stuff stung the corners of his mouth and tasted awful—and the bad taste filled his mouth with saliva which he desperately wanted to spit out. A minute passed slowly, and the Dentist continued to speak, "I hope you know—going over my head won't go well for anyone. Not you, and not those sisters of yours."

Link nodded.

"Good boy." He removed his hand, "Spit."

Link spit the fluoride and excess saliva out into the tiny little white sink by the chair. He washed it down the drain and reached for the little disposable cup to rinse his mouth out—but The Dentist stopped him, "Oh, no, no, no. No food or water for at least thirty minutes."

He wanted the feel and taste of fluoride out of his mouth_ now_ though. He spit again and rubbed the corners of his mouth with his sleeve, trying to get the feeling to go away. He put a little water on his sleeve, but that didn't even work. He handed him a large yellow envelope, "You'll need to take a look at these. Just head on out." he said, taking the gauze bib from around his neck and tossing it away. He stripped off his latex gloves with a snap and threw them away, too, "And I'll see you when I need you again."

Link left with out talking to the ex-con receptionist or to anyone else. He walked out, went to the nearest bus stop, and waited around. This but stop was a lot bigger than the one by Romani Beef, cleaner, too. There were fliers posted on a cork board, ads for business, people looking for roommates, things like that. Because he was bored, Link walked to them and examined the board. The radio station was looking for a new disc jockey, Linebeck's Antiques was looking to buy—and would be hosting a special auction of some extremely choice antiques.

Tucked just under than, Link caught of glimpse of the words "_Have you seen me?" _written in dark, bold typeface. He reached for it and tugged it down. The paper ripped away easily, and he was shocked by what he saw—it was her again, the girl from the bus station. There were two photographs, one clear as day, in full color. It was her most recent school picture—she wore glasses normally. Rose-colored, cat-eye frames, and her hair was tied back with a red bow. She went to a school that had _uniforms. _A private school. He looked to the second picture. It was grainy, taken from a cell phone or digital pictobox. She was shielding her eyes with her hand with a bright, laughing smile plastered across her face, shying away from the camera.

Her name was Zelda Hylsen.

Link looked over the information, five-five, blonde, seventeen, blue eyes—all of that matched up. He leaned back against the wall and read over the blurb. Her father, Gustav Hylsen, missed her very much, she had a wonderful life ahead of her and he was desperate to see her live it. He wanted her found alive and unharmed. The address was listed, so was the phone number. There was a reward, ten thousand rupees, actually. Would that pay for Aryll's treatment? How much left over would there be? Link had no idea what he would do with that much money. Did Gustav even _have_ that much? How in Hylia's name did anyone get ten thousand rupees?

Something struck him as odd—her father had last seen her two days _before_ he had seen her at the bus stop. He ran the past days over in his head, and he was positive, yes, she was last seen _before_ she had run into him. That made him extremely curious. Where had she been between last seeing her father and seeing him?

His eyes looked to the pay phone—or, rather, they were dragged there forcibly, and a voice hissed in his head, _call him. _A voice hissed in his head. A call was not much—he had a half rupee coin in his pocket, but it did not burn as much as the curiosity. He wanted to call—maybe her father knew something? But he knew calling would be foolish—Ganondorf tapped those lines, everyone knew that. Link folded up the flier and stuffed it in his back pocket for safe keeping. He might need to call that number again someone. If he knew anything about where Zelda had gone, would he be posting a flyer trying to find her? No. No obviously not.

The voice in the back of his mind was screaming now, C_all him. Call him you idiot. She might be in trouble. You might learn something._

No. He told himself. Later. Tonight. He would find a payphone tonight when his face was covered and no one would be on the street to recognize him. That satisfied the voice in his head and shut it up. Link sat down at the station and waited for the bus to arrive. Before he went to Malladus' house—he would be less pressed for time, then. He wondered why exactly he would be gone all night.

It could not be later tonight—he would be asleep. He might not hear the phone, he might not answer it. Link looked back to the booth. It would need to be now—it would have to be now. Now would be fine—he was no where near where he lived, and if he did not give a name, maybe Ganondorf would not have any reason to focus on his single conversation. Lots of people were talking on the phone right now, and he had plenty of time before the bus arrived. He thought about standing up.

No—no what if he was paying attention to that phone line specifically—the Hylsen's line? What if Ganondorf was looking for her, too? Not many girls were named Zelda—it was more likely that she was _the_ Zelda, more likely that than he was _the_ Link, after all. His stomach turned into a knot, coiling tightly around itself. He felt cold all over. What if she was _the_ Zelda? He pressed his hands between his knees, then took out the flier again. He paid attention to the address—was Helmaroc Terrace far from Saria Street? He'd keep an eye out for it on his way.

To calm himself down, he went over the mental checklist of everything he had back at the house that he would need to gather up without waking Marin, and were they all were located. He had a pair of brass knuckles, a flash light, a pair of brass knuckles and sneakers that had been worn down at the sole to leave no distinct prints—just the shoe size. Thick leather gloves that would not leave prints if his touch was light enough, the lock picks. Half of that was already gathered up in the back pack. He had a black hoodie, and a tube scarf to hide his face, and a switch blade that he had gotten into the habit of carrying with him always. He had everything he needed—he would just have to avoid waking Marin up when he left.

That would be easy enough.

The bus came, and he went home. He sat at the back of the bus and flipped through the files. There was a map for him, and photographs of some of the more choice valuables. Malladus was in possession of two jeweled Stalfos skulls, and if the photograph, obviously taken with out his consent, was to be believed, he was using them as bookends. There were other things, necklaces, jewelry, a good silver tea service—there was no way Link would ever make it out with that. Why was it even included in the file? That was ridiculous. He poured over the map—Helmaroc Terrace would be about fifteen minutes out of his way.

This route had him taking a few convoluted back roads, going onto the main highway and then abandoning the Catherine under the underpass to continue on foot across Lon Lon Country Club's Golf Course.

Fair enough—he had legs that weren't broken. He figured there was a reason. A few places were circled, and there was a hand written note that said they were dead zones, holes in the surveillance web. One of them was Lon Lon Country Club.

For a moment, Link thought back to the map in the scrapyard—was that one of the circled locations? Had the Hero of Time scoped it out before it was constructed? He did not have time to go and check, unfortunately—if he did not get killed on the eighteenth hole, he would go back and check it out. But he had survived that one, so perhaps he would not find anything there, after all.

The bus stopped and he folded the map before anyone could see it. He got off with everyone else and took his usual route home, past Larry's hangout. They shared a glance or a second, then Larry went back to pretending to wash the Catherine motorcycle, then Link went on, past the Temple of Farore—and he felt a judgmental gaze bearing down on him. He was alone, so he took out the map again and continued to commit the route to memory. He folded it up again when he reached the house, put it away in the folder, and hid the folder in the best place he could think of, under the welcome mat—Marin should be home by now and she would notice it instantly if he brought it inside with him.

She was noticing details right and left these days. He had been coming home late some times, coming home tired, and with scratches and mild bruises. He bought the backpack that was tucked behind the couch and he figured it was a miracle she had not been around to see it, because she would be searching it if she had known—and of course she would would find his equipment if she did. She knew something was up still

She was sitting in one of the two arm chairs, staring at the wall. When he came in she did not look at him or say a word. She was wearing a t-shirt and sweat pants, with her hair down for the first time in a while. It still held the kinks and curls from her tight work-bun. Her feet were tucked under her and she had a mug of tea in her hands. Link offered a very awkward, "Hey."

She did not blink, "Hey."

She sounded pissed—not at him, but pissed. "W-what's going on? Did something happen?"

"Yes."

"What?"

She frowned and looked down at her mug of tea. "Lost my job at the bottling plant." she told him flatly, "I don't want to tell you—but you deserve to know anyway. So I'm telling you."

"You still have the job at the cafe and at the shop, though."

"That doesn't make me any less pissed off."

"You've got a point there." he confessed. Link sat down on the couch and started taking off his boots. "You see Aryll today?"

"No—I can't let her see me like this. Did you go?"

He felt bad saying it, but she would find out on her own. "No."

She nodded as if she understood, "What'd you do instead? You should have been home an hour ago."

"I—I had to go talk to some people." he answered.

"What people?"

He lied, "Beedle." he told her, "I went to go talk to Beedle. I figured he knows knows people—maybe some of those people were looking to put someone to work."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing. He did not have anything for me. He didn't know anyone."

"That's too bad."

"I'll go see Aryll tomorrow."

He worked at the grocery store—it was closer, and there was no way The Dentist would call him back so quickly. Someone would start to suspect something if he showed up too frequently, so he would not be distracted by anything. Marin took another sip of her tea and adjusted her position on the chair slightly, sinking back into the old cushions and trying to make herself warmer. She set the tea down and reached back for a blanket on the back of a chair, covering herself with it.

"I'll go look for work."

"No—Don't. You've got two jobs, that should be plenty. It's fine—just work more at the cafe."

"Cafe doesn't pay anything."

"You're nice." Link shook his head, "You're pretty. Are you trying to tell me you don't get good tips?"

"I don't get good tips." she tugged the blanket up higher and ran her fingers through her hair, catching a few strands that had fallen loose. She shook them off onto the floor and resumed drinking her tea. It was getting dark out side, and the lights were off—he could not see very well. He reached to the end table to turn on the lamp. The light diffused outwards, soft and warm, and hid the tired, ragged hollowness of their faces. It was hard to tell if the dark circles under Marin's eyes were running makeup, or from a lack of sleep. She always looked so run-down.

He wished she was sitting on the couch. He could have at least sat down beside her and given her a hug—but if she wanted a hug, she would be sitting on the couch, and she was not. He felt so distant. The living room felt like the entire world and the coffee table felt like a dark, muddy sea, with water stains and chips like whirlpools and white foam and a couple of coins spread out like islands.

They felt so distant. He tucked a knees under his chin and dwelled on it for a second. He had Marin had known each other for their entire lives. They had grown up next door to each other, before her mother had vanished and her father had turned to booze and his parents had died. They had spent every day together, gone to the park, walked home from school with Aryll, but then his parents died and they moved from the middle-class division of Eldin and to the slow, sleepy streets of Kakriko before it turned from a little retirement community to the slum it was today. When his grandmother had passed away, Marin just moved in because she was already eighteen and she could not stand living with her father anymore, so the two of them had gotten legal emancipation and had stayed in his grandmother's too-small house. At first it had just been her working, because they were young and stupid and she thought she could get through college and work and feed three people on one job, but the inheritance had dried up pretty fast, so she had to drop out of school—and then he had to do it, too. Not like he minded at all. It was boring and he hated everything anyway. She had family she could run too, it was staggeringly huge; but it also had a tradition of mooching and thievery, and they did not have another couch for anyone to sleep on. There was not room for anyone else. It was just a simple cottage, really.

He and Aryll did not have a single aunt, uncle, or a cousin. All they had was Marin.

And now this.

But what was _this,_ really? Was this the end? What was going to happen after this, for them? What happened when they just could not _go_ anymore?

Aryll would go to the state, maybe he would, too—he wasn't eighteen yet. He could become a ward of the state. What happened to wards of the state—named _Link_? Were there any wards of the state? He did not know—not really. What would happen to Marin? This would have been two years of her life given up for nothing, just because of Aryll.

It was not Aryll's fault. Link reminded himself. Aryll had not done anything wrong. She would be home soon—she would be home soon and the cost would seem worth it, but how was he going to hide the price from her? It was not like he could. Aryll would start to notice, and she was smart. She could see through almost every lie. What would they do about her?

Lie. It was the obvious choice. Keep lying. He asked, "You want dinner?"

"I had dinner." Marin replied, "I was angry and starving. I made dinner—but there's leftovers."

"Not yet." Link replied.

The distance grew. Link searched for something to talk about, but there was not anything. Aryll at least had things to say, so and so said this. So and so said that. So and so convinced some other Link that Ganondorf was coming to visit the school to kill him—just like that one kid. And he was scared, so I kicked his ass for him. Aren't you proud of me, Big Brother? Tell me you're proud of me—it's more than you've done. It was quiet with out her.

"I wish they'd release Aryll sooner."

"I know. I keep waking up and forgetting she's gone. I reach over and—no one's there. It's terrifying."

It was silent again.

"We'll get through this."

"That was when things were looking almost okay."

"Marin, don't worry—we're okay."

"I think we're very far from okay, Link."

She was right.

* * *

_Heavy Breathing._


	6. Chapter 6

Interlinking

(Disclaimed)

Heavy breathing intensifies.

* * *

Chapter six:

Link ran his tongue along his teeth. There was pain—pain in his gums, pain on his tongue as it scraped over the sharp, razor-like edges, pain in his cheeks, nicked and scraped, little ribbons of flesh in the inside of his mouth.

He looked down at his hand. There were tooth fragments on his palm, none of them were from the same tooth, some just came from the crown, others had split from the root. They floated in a little pool of blood in the palm of his hand. When he was about to swallow, he felt another piece of his tooth fall loose. He spit it out. Blood flowed over his fingers. He ran his tongue along his teeth again, and he could feel a soft, bloody pocket in his gums. Frightened, he took a deep breath and one—one that had held on until the last second few back, down his throat—it lodged there.

As he choked, he heard the Dentist laughing, saying to him, "I told you—you should have pulled that weak link when you had the chance."

Link awoke with a start at 11:59 exactly. Thinking quickly, he deactivated the alarm before it could go off and stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He started at the ceiling and listened. It was completely silent—except for a distant dog's bark. He had to move.

He turned on the flashlight and stuck it between his teeth to keep his hands free. He kicked off the blankets and stepped into his jeans which were between the couch and the coffee table, he pulled them up roughly by the belt, which was still threaded through the loops. He put on his socks next, but instead of his boots, he pulled out the sneakers that had been sanded clean of their treads from under the couch. He slipped them on and tied them quickly, propping his foot against the coffee table. He did not fold the blankets on the couch. If he left them spread out, Marin would think he just stepped out for some air if he left them. He opened the armoire in the corner. It had, at one point, been an entertainment center, but they had sold the TV and DVD player and now he used it to hold his clothes. He grabbed a random shirt, a blue and green plaid button-up, and tossed it to the couch.

He picked up the black backpack and checked to make sure everything was still inside. It was all clustered in the smallest compartment, towards the front. Switch blade, yes, brass knuckles, yes, lock picks, yes. Hoodie, check, bandanna, check. He moved the knife to his back pocket and felt the flier for Zelda already there. He remembered that he was going to try to get in contact with her father. He paused for a second, unfolded it, and scrawled quickly on the back, _Beedle's junkyard. Dinsday. Sunset. Come alone_. It was the first thing that came to mind. He stuffed it back into his pocket and then set the back pack down on the chair. He rolled up the plaid shirt and stuffed it inside, then slipped on the green t-shirt from yesterday and put on his jacket and cap.

He looked at the clock—that had taken about seven minutes.

His stomach growled.

He grabbed an apple and a bottle of water from the refrigerator, slipped the water into the side pocket of the backpack and kept the apple in his hand. It was not the most filling meal, but it would tide him over.

He zipped the backpack up as quietly as he could and to walked the door, not making a sound.

He opened the front door just enough for him to slip the backpack through first, then himself. He shut it again, just as quietly. When he was on the porch, he knelt down and grabbed the file from under the mat, and stuffed it in the back pack as well. If something happened to him, he would not want Marin to find it. He slipped the bag onto his back, pulled the straps tight, and walked down the stairs, keeping an eye on Marin's window, searching for light.

Nothing stirred inside.

He ate the apple as he walked, from the bottom up, core and all. He went along his usual route to the bus stop, to where Larry had stashed the Catherine. He was waiting there.

"Thought you wouldn't show."

"No—I keep my word." he slipped back against the wall and took off his denim jacket and hat, passing them to a body double. He took out the black hoodie and pulled it on over his head, then the bandanna, which he used to cover the lower half of his face. His double twisted her dark hair up and put the green cap on. "I want that jacket back."

"I'll be in Farore's church." the decoy replied before she walked away to stroll around the block and provided Link with a good alibi. The trick would not work in the richer parts of town, but here the cameras were cheap and grainy. Anything could trick them. Even a girl wearing his clothing. The important thing was that Link and the motorcycle would be seen as a single unit for the entire heist—and "he" would be the girl that walked around town in the middle of the night before going inside Farore's Temple, where Link would meet her, get his jacket and the cap back, and head home for another fifteen minutes of sleep before heading to work.

Larry grinned in amusement and pride. He handed Link the keys. "You remember how to use this thing?"

"Yes. I remember."

The driving lesson had only lasted about thirty minutes, but yes, he remembered. He took the keys from Larry, waved good bye, and drove off, keeping to the back roads. No one was around, so he could speed, but even then, it took two hours, or perhaps an hour and a half, to get there, not including the detour into Helmaroc Terrace. It was a clear night, but the sky was dim, the street lights snuffed out the stars and lit his way just fine. Link stopped at a red light and looked up for a second. There should be stars. He had never seen a sky filled with stars before. It was a half-moon tonight.

He felt like if the lights would all go out, the moon and the stars would still be enough to light his way. He went along the dark back streets for a while, through the neighborhoods of Faron, then crossing over into Eldin, and finally getting onto the freeway when he made it through a hole in the security net in a raggedy neighborhood in Eldin. He crossed over the town on the freeway. It was like a bridge, soaring over the little minor neighborhoods and passing right by Ganondorf's stronghold. He slowed for a while and watched it as it drove by. No one else was on the street. It felt like the entire city had been lit up brightly, then completely abandoned.

Could he jump the Catherine off of this freeway and land safely beyond the wall? Right into Ganondorf's backyard?

Probably not.

He passed by Cassiopia's Memorial Hospital. Some of the lights were on, most were off. The parking lot was half empty, and the graveyard shift was in full swing. He wondered about Aryll and hoped everything was going alright. He knew more people died during the night shift in hospitals because the staff on call was tired and small. But she was probably fine. She had survived the first night and it was unlikely that she was going to get any worse. She was fine.

He drove on, exiting the freeway in Lanayru. It was a different feel form the neighborhoods of Faron and Eldin. Wealthier, and more put together. He parked in a well-hidden spot, under the freeway, where river and waste water flowed together before being treated and funneled into the nicer parts of town, and into fountains and a couple of purely cosmetic lakes in public parks and Lon Lon Country Club. He left on foot, stuffing the keys in his back pocket and taking out the flier for Zelda. He checked the note on the back, was he really sure he wanted to do that?

Yeah—Beedle's scrapyard was the safest place he knew, and it was completely neutral ground.

There were no fences anywhere in this part of the city. He could just walk across the parking lot and through the golf course.

Gosh it was dark.

He took out the flash light and shined it before his feet. The grass was freshly watered, so the ground was springy and muddy, and in some places the sand traps were a little damp. He made sure to avoid them. Just because there were no treads on his shoes did not mean they could not at least get his shoe size or his weight. While he walked, he made sure his hood was still up and his face was still covered by the bandanna. He knew it was impossible to go about undetected—but it was possible for no one to know it was _him_ specifically.

He doubted the first Link had found anything interesting here. It did not look particularly spectacular—sure it was pretty, and it was nice to know that there were no cameras around, but he did not feel like it held any secrets. It was just _there. _That was it. It was just there.

That was a question for another time. Link went over the route again in his head. Head to Helmaroc Terrace, back track and got to the end of Saria Street. Get in fast, get out faster. Don't be seen. Head back to Lanayru and get the Catherine, and then head back to Eldin, to the Dentist's Office—or, rather, to the club. Once there, he would turn in what he took to a fellow called The Collector, change clothes again, and be on his way.

He went to his left first, past the big, granite and brick sign that said in beautiful, intertwining letters 'Helmaroc Terrace' and double checked the exact street address. 1987. The street itself curved in a big circle. Neither way seemed more right than the other, and that was because 1987 was on the opposite side from the entrance.

This place was something else. It looked like a place where she'd be from, certainly. The street lights were black-painted metal, made to look like old lamp-posts, and gleaming brightly. The lawns were manicured and all of the houses were identical—but The Hylsen house, complete with its monogrammed mailbox, stood dark between two other houses that were dark inside, but the lights above their doors were shining down the walkways up to their front gates. 1987 was completely black, inside and out, and an eerie hollowness seeped from it. Link stood there for a while, reminding himself that there could be someone watching, so he had better get a move on. As quickly as he could, he strode up to the house and slipped the folded-up flier through the door.

And then he moved on—but he kept checking back frequently. He had felt it when he turned away from the front door. It felt like someone was watching him now. Where was that feeling coming from?

"Your own head, idiot." he whispered to himself, "No one's there—you're fine."

It was a short walk, about ten minutes. A couple of dogs barked at him, but no lights came on. No one took the barks of their dogs seriously in a peaceful place like this, so Link was not bothered in the slightest by anything or anyone—even as he walked past a couple of signs warning him about the strict and alert neighborhood crime watch signs. He found the house of Cole Malladus, right there at the at the very end of the cul-de-sac that ended Saria Street, and walked right up to the front door, unseen by any human eye. He set the backpack down and set to work trying to pick the lock.

It came open easily. Link felt a chill as it swung open with a little creak. He expected an explosion—an electronic alarm to off, at least, but no. There was nothing. Had it just been a bad lock? Had Malladus left it open? Was he expecting something like this to happen? What there someone waiting inside?

Link crouched there, waiting. He did not hear anything. He took a deep breath and stood up, gripping the backpack firmly. This was pure and simple coincidence. Happenstance. Nothing more. He took the flashlight out of the pocket of his hoodie and shone the beam to the left and right. He did not see anything.

"Well—" he muttered to himself, shutting the door, "Let's get to work."

He checked every room, scanning them in a quick, dimly-lit frenzy for any electronic devices capable of storing data that were not full computers—which he could not carry. He moved as little as possible. He found a couple of old cell phones with no battery life, they could be wiped and sold again, right? A digital pictobox (why the hell not—he wanted one of those) and the cord that could connect to the computer, and two flash drives on the first floor, one in the kitchen junk drawer, one laying on the coffee table. He found some spare change in the couch, some paper money, and pocketed that as well. The Dentist said _anything_ he could carry, right? And Link had no interest in going across town with anything breakable. If he found money laying around, he was going to take it.

The carpet under his feet was plush and soft, so he did not make any noise as he walked, there was not a single creaking hinge or board in the place. The silence was pressing—frightening. More than once he thought he felt someone, or saw someone, a little shadow out of the corner of his eye, a little light, and a sound like jingling bells. When he turned around quickly, no one was there. It must have been his flash light reflecting off of a glass in the cupboard, or-

Link froze beside the dining room table, eyes fixed on the mirror. No. No he was positive this time. He could have _sworn_ he just saw a shadow slip past, calm and fluid, like a ghost. He blinked, nothing else moved. He shook his head, mumbled to himself that he was clearly just freaking out because he was in the middle of a burglary, but it was a burglary for a good cause, no matter what anyone else said. Aryll was worth it.

He moved on. He wished he could carry more, because it looked to him that everything left laying around could fetch him a tidy sum. He envied their money—he really did. He stopped to examine a mirror in the hallway just before the stairs. It might actually be mass-produced, but the design etched around the edge, dancing with the metal frame, was still something worth stopping to look at for a second.

He went up the stairs and went to the first door. It was a bathroom. Nothing of interest there. He went to the next room, a spare room, completely empty. He went to the room across from it, an office. The computer had been left on, but there were no flash drives or CD's just laying around. He searched the drawers, poking around an old wallet, empty, a gun—yikes—yellow note pads and a couple of black address books. Link picked one up and thumbed through it. If he could find something good for blackmail—could he bother with it? How easy would it be to prove it was a fake? Probably really easy, once he thought about it. Forgery was a good excuse for getting out of anything. He tossed them down quickly and he could have _sworn_ he heard a soft little gasp from somewhere else.

He jumped, scanning the room quickly. He did not see anything.

He hissed to himself, "Grow a pair, Link."

He looked around the room for anything else and saw a couple of photographs, a diploma, a few college trophies and one for second place in the local golf tournament. He looked to the other side of the room. There were books with titles he could not read in the poor light, a couple of little oddities, wooden puzzles that were impossible to put together once taken apart, things like that. Nothing worth taking.

Nothing incriminating appeared on the computer's desk top, either, so that was out. Link did not want to waste time going though the entire thing. Should he even take the gun? Could it be tracked? Maybe not—and he could find some use for it. He hated guns. Everyone had them, the Gerudo that answered to Ganondorf, the regular police, the Moblins and the gangsters. It would be smart to have a gun. He stuffed it in the backpack, then reconsidered—what if it went off accidentally? The crime was bad enough but what if _Marin_ found it? He returned it to the drawer. Gun safety was not something he had been taught yet.

But were they ever going to teach him if he did not have one? If they taught him, they'd be obligated to arm him, and while Link could not think of a reason they would not want that, he could not think of a reason they _would _want it, either.

"Oh!" he hissed to himself, "I'll just take the damn thing."

He stuffed it back into his back pack. He was fully aware of the danger, not just of the gun discharging, but of Marin finding it either deliberately or accidentally, or of Aryll finding it when she got home and hurting herself with it. He slung the backpack over his shoulder, and headed towards the master bedroom. He searched the room starting with the right-hand wall and dresser. Diamond cuff links, expensive watch, a tie clip that was _possibly_ solid gold, he gathered them up in a silk handkerchief to protect them and dropped the little parcel in the backpack. In the drawers there were folded shirts that would not suit him, though they would fit; trousers, socks, undershirts and briefs—it was good to know Malladus did not go commando. He found some raunchy DVDs he would have preferred he had _never _seen—it was not good to know what he was into. He put those back and went through the drawers that did not have socks and porn, then searched the closet, found nothing of interest in there, and then moved to the armiore that had been turned into entertainment center. There were two flash drives hidden in the messily-arranged DVDs. Link tossed them into his backpack and went to a different drawer.

There were various paper records in this one. Link thought they were just financial records and things he would not be able to make heads or tail of, or even use, but he noticed a CD case. He thumbed through them. They were all labeled with some kind of code made up of letters and numbers. Very suspicious-looking. He made sure his face was still covered by the bandanna and he stuffed them into the backpack. That CD case seemed like a pretty good find to him-better than the gold, as far as utility value was concerned. Anything could be on it—Malladus had certainly attempted to hide what it was. It could be something dangerous—digital records of some kind of corruption, or something completely benign, like pirated films.

He put the backpack on properly and headed down stairs. He went right back the way he came, locking the door behind him and cutting across the golf course. He kept his ears open, he really _really_ felt like he was being watched now, but when he turned to look, he did not see anything. He could have _sworn_ he heard someone moving around behind him though. He forced himself to dismiss it as paranoia and kept going, back to the Catherine. He was not expecting to see another car on the road, but there was one. A beat-up black Armos. Certainly not a police car—and nothing the Gerudo Secret Police drove. This one was missing a head light and had a bad crack in the windshield. It was distinctive. Very distinctive.

So Link noticed it.

The first time was a gas station in Lanayru near where he had hidden the motorcycle. The next, it casually drove along behind him in the highway—but did not follow him off in Eldin. By this time, he told himself that logically, it was just a coincidence. Yes. A complete coincidence that two of the only people on the road at three in the morning were heading the same direction.

He drove to the bar under the insurance office next to the Dentist's office, parked the motorcycle in an opposite alleyway and then went in. He shouted into the ear of the Moblin in charge of letting people in, _"I'M LINK—I have an appointment_!"

"_IN THE BACK._"

"_THANK YOU._"

He was allowed in with out any ID or the hassle of a wristband. He wove through the crowd and went into the office on the far wall. It was sound proofed completely, and silent inside. There was a Moblin sitting behind the desk in a comfortable chair. He leaned back, crossed his ankles on the desk, and held a lit cigar between his fingers, raising it slowly to smiling and puckered lips. He grinned broadly when he saw link and said gleefully, "Yo, fresh meat."

That was the Collector. He took the stolen goods and re-sold them to third parties, and he was the cousin of the man that ran the insurance office above their heads, which was used in turn to launder the money the Moblins collected. He was big, like most Moblins were, but he was also uncharacteristically tall and sinewy_._ He was as tall as a Goron. His teeth were a little crooked, and the right tusk had been broken some time ago, it was capped off with a horn of a shiny silvery metal—but it was not silver. The Dentist would never use anything so precious on such a big job. It was polished and chemically treated aluminum. He was dark, too—not the brownish-pink of Larry or the Dentist, but a darker, almost bluish black, with a few pale pink splotches, one on the back of his hand, one on top of his head. There was a scar running over his eyebrow to the tip of his nose, a little slash that went all the way to his left nostril.

Mindful of the gun, Link set the back pack down on the desk in front of the Collector's feet and took out everything he had stolen, the USB drives, the book of compact discs, the digital pictobox, the cell phones, and the handkerchief of valuables. His hand rested on the gun briefly, but he did not take it out. He stepped back, took of the bandanna and hoodie, and then changed into the plaid shirt, stuffing the old clothes in to the backpack over the gun and closing it again, "Is that good?"

"Yeah." he nodded, picking it over, fiddling with the knot on the handkerchief-he failed to get it open. He jogged it on the table, and upon hearing the metallic clinks inside, he nodded approvingly, "Good, good—we'll look through it and see if its really good or just okay."

"That's it?"

He shrugged, "Yeah—that's it. Not bad for a first try." He tapped a dark finger into the CD case, "This looks really promising here, actually—Good find, rookie. Care for a drink on the house?"

Link considered it. He felt slightly frazzled, but he knew he had to start the long walk home, and there was no way he could do that safely if he was intoxicated. "No. I'm good." he replied, "Catherine's across the street."

And that was the end of it.

He turned on his heel and walked out of the bar, back onto the street.

And he saw the Black Armos again.

It was about two blocks away, but he was positive, yes, it was the same one. The lights were off and it did not seem to be running. Link backed away from it, turned the corner, and headed home. It was a long walk across Faron to Kakariko, but he had taken longer. Crossing the highway was the only dangerous part, and no one was out, so it was easier than it could have been. The time did not bother him. It was the cold. He could not put on the hoodie for warmth, he could not be seen wearing it again. He should have gotten something warmer. He missed his hat and denim jacket. He managed to keep warm by running, but the backpack jostled dangerously on his back. He remembered the gun and slowed his pace. He breathed into his hands and cursed himself for for not having gloves.

By his reckoning it was about four in the morning by the time he doors of the temple of Farore swung shut behind him. He had not seen the Black Armos or heard any sign of another person since crossing the highway. He found his cap and jacket in the third pew from the front on the left side. Link changed shirts again, put on the jacket and cap, and turned to leave.

And there it was again.

That feeling like he was being watched.

He stopped in his tracks and turned around. All he saw was the alter, and Farore's idol standing there, staring him down. He had never felt any kind of religious pull before, no call from the Goddesses, no need to pray. He felt it now. He walked down the aisle, his footsteps echoed off the walls. He kept his eyes fixed of Farore's idol towering above him. Her hands were folded elegantly over a great sword that was planted at her feet, her smooth, plaster features fixed in a look of resilient courage, her eyes fixed forward, like he was not worth looking at, like he was an abysmal failure.

He was conflicted. He knew what he had to do. He had to resort to crime because he could not stand to lose Aryll and Marin. He had worked to hard to float by. He hated trying to hide it from Marin, and he hated putting them in danger. He hated the very idea of Ganondorf. He hated that he was able to get away with nearly killing so many people—particularly Aryll. Mostly Aryll. Only Aryll. He hated that he had the Triforce—he hated that there could not be another Hero of Time without it.

He hated that judgmental look on her face.

Link was not an idiot. He knew arguing with a statue would get him no where.

"You wouldn't understand." he found himself saying, "You couldn't understand. You have no idea what it's like to be stuck in the fringes of society. My little sister was poisoned—she's one of the two things I've got left and I'll die before anyone takes her away from me. I'm supposed to be taking care of her—"

This was stupid. Link was talking to himself. He stared up at the statue, a little pissed off, but he was calming down quickly. He took a deep breath, relaxed his shoulders and straightened up, squaring up against the statue for Farore. The judgmental expression on her face did not change. She was not saying a word to him—that's how insignificant and unworthy he was.

"It feels like we've come to a disagreement about where my life is supposed to go, okay? If you're trying to give me a sign—don't put my sister in danger to do it, just speak up next time. Am I supposed to be taking the hints that I'm he Hero of Time because that feels like what, you know, all of this is heading towards—but I could have sworn the Hero of Time has, you know, courage to go along with the unbreakable spirit? And the Triforce. I'm pretty sure that's kind of integral."

Silence.

"I'm just asking for something a little more definitive that vague hints."

More silence.

Then, from the back of the church, Link heard the door slamming shut.

He turned around quickly, but he saw nothing. He listened for anything else—and he felt the tips of his ears burning. He had been _positive_ no one else had been around. He swallowed dryly. There its was again. There was that feeling. Cautiously, he took a step forward, then another, keeping his eyes glued on the door. He threw them open—did not see anyone—but he certainly felt something. He closed the doors softly and turned around.

Standing there in the middle of the aisle, completely in the light, was a shadow.

His shadow.

Well—okay that was not exactly what he had asked for but it _was_ a definitive sign.

* * *

I think I've discovered something. I'm calling it the five chapter curse. I always have difficulty with the fifth chapter-but next chapter's already written, good thing, too-that is not a pleasant cliffhanger.


	7. Chapter 7

Interlinking

(Disclaimed)

REFERENCE ALL THE GAMES.

* * *

Chapter seven:

They faced off in silence for a while. His shadow stood there, tall and confident, hands outstretched, held away from his sides. Link reached for the knife in his back pocket—his shadow made the same movement, right handed—truly a mirror of himself. What would he do? Sure, he did not have a lot of experience—but could he still manage to beat his own shadow? He stepped forward and a little to the right—the shadow mirrored him perfectly, head bowing lower, face coming forward, shoulders arching, like an animal ready to pounce.

It was too early for this.

Link thrust the knife forward, the shadow swung his leg up and stepped back, trapping the knife against the edge of the pew and standing on the blade. He hopped upwards, twisting his body so the knife was wrenched from his hand—and then the Shadow lost balance, tumbling backwards into the next row back and falling onto the dark green cushion, then onto the carpet. It the cushion from the nearest pew and bopped him in the side of the head with it, then jabbed it into his forehead. It was not enough to hurt him, just distract him. When Link batted the green foam cushion away, the Shadow was gone. He took a step back.

Where did it go? Where did it go?

He felt something smack him on the back of the head and the slightest of giggles. The shadow danced away. Link was suspicious of that skill—it was not his own. He fumbled for the knife and straightened out again. He took a dive, heading for the Shadow, knife drawn, and it met him head on—but it did not try to stab him. He batted his hand to the side, painfully knocking his forearm into the pews and delivered a quick, stinging strike to the bridge of his nose with the heel of his hand. The Shadow side-stepped out of his reach and then took his knees out from under him.

If this was a message from the Goddesses; they were clearly tell him they were unimpressed and he sucked. The Shadow rolled away and perched on the steps before the altar, knife in hand, sizing him up, but waiting politely for him to get his act together before going in for the finishing blow. It was the Shadow and Farore's idol now, both judging him. He let go of a breath he had not known he had been holding, and then he straightened up. So did his Shadow.

Mindful of the gun, Link set down the backpack and faced off against his black doppelganger again—it was the Shadow's turn to move first, he ran, not to Link, but to the pews, where he rushed upwards, and ran towards him, feet landing perfectly on the backs each time. He lept off, and it looked like his foot was going to hit home on Link's head. He yelped and ducked, very un-heroically, and by the time he looked up again, the Shadow had once again vanished with out a trace—and this time, he did not look to be coming back.

"What..?" Link spun around quickly, confused, a little angry, until he saw motion out of the corner of his eye, a sliver of black against the deep green carpet, huddled there, head hidden in the crook of his arm, fighting back a mad fit of giggles. Link felt his ears and cheeks burning. It was not a shadow of himself. It was some jackass dressed entirely in black and crawling around under the pews.

"Wait a second!"

"Aw, Nayru's Love, _finally!" _the 'Shadow' snickering in a voice that was clearly not an echo of Link's. He crawled along, out into the aisle, but did not straighten up. Instead, he just hooked a thumb under his black ski mask and jerked it up. He was red-faced underneath, and a little sweaty, "I thought you'd never figure it out."

"Jackass."

"Maybe, but the look on your face made it worth it!"

Link was at a loss for words. "Jackass."

"Yes, yes."

"I'm in the middle of an identity crisis and you're running around playing pret—WHO EVEN ARE YOU?"

"Not the one that think's he's the Hero of Time, _that's who_." he replied bluntly, a cheeky grin spreading out over his features. His eyes were smudged with black paint, like a raccoon. His teeth were a little crooked, so was his smile. He reached up and whipped off the ski mask the rest of the way and ran a hand through his matted, strawberry blonde hair, giving it a ruffle. It was the same color as the stubbly hair that covered his square jaw. He was Human, not Hylian. He propped his chin on his hand and drummed his fingers lazily against his broad cheek. In a childish way, he crossed his ankles and swung his feet forwards and back.

Also, he was right.

"Jackass"

"Yeah." he tilted his head, "Sorry. I'll buy you breakfast?"

"I could have killed you."

His nostrils flared, he squinted, and he shook his head in a dismissive, amused manner, "Number one; no you couldn't. Number two; I'm buying you breakfast anyway."

The offer of breakfast was temping. Link was starving. The stranger got up, dusted himself off, and rolled up his ski mask, tucking it away in his jacket pocket.

"Why did you do that?!"

"You looted my target!" he replied. He crossed his arms and feigned indignant judgment, "How dare you?"

"But how did you get here? How did you recognize me?"

"Well I—I followed you. I was curious. I saw how fast you picked that lock but everything else about your work seemed kind of—meh."

"How _long_ did you follow me?"

He did not answer directly, "Long enough to work up an appetite okay?—Let's get breakfast."

Link picked up the backpack and put the switchblade away. He was angry—but also famished. His legs were tired and he figured if there was any day for a large breakfast, it was today. He had made it a habit to foolishly trust strangers—why not this one? They walked out of the church together, and there was the Black Armos, right there in plain sight.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

He did not answer, but he did not hedge, "Hush, no, you'll ruin the magic."

It was nice inside, cleaned except for a few scraps of paper, receipts, and a little air freshener hanging from the mirror, though it did not need it. The car was just fine. They drove to a little restaurant called Telma's. It was a chain joint, the kind of place that would always be open, even at four in the morning. The waitstaff was usually surly and sleepy at this hour, so the both made a point of being quiet, polite and understanding. They were shown to a booth near the entrance to the kitchen, ordered black coffee and water both. Link, never a big eater, simply asked for pancakes and coffee while his new companion ordered a full spread, acting like it would be his last meal on earth.

"Never caught your name." he observed after they had ordered. He propped an elbow on the clean table and leaned forward. There were creases in the black paint around his eyes. It looked oily and uncomfortable.

"Link."

"Oh—Me too. Small world. You got a last name? Middle name?" With out really looking, he grabbed a napkin from the metal dispenser.

"Smith." Link answered.

"Call me Blake." he replied, he began to rub at his eyes, opening them wide to get the make up on the inner edges of his eye lids, and Link saw that his eyes were not just a simple brown. They held just a hint of dark red. He did not get much of the oily makeup off, just smudged it about a little more-though there was a great deal on the napkin when he crumpled it up and set it aside. "Seeing as we've got the same first name, might as well skip on to that one." He glanced around, chin still on his hand, a little frown on his face.

Link followed his eyes. The design on the inside of the restaurant was garish, and the emptiness and the bright lights above their heads just made it all stand out more—purple and red-violet, dotted with bright yellow, and a little sky-blue, to match the neon sign out front that read 'Telma's' in fluid letters. It was clean, though, and that was what mattered. The windows were plastered with adds for their specials and the front door had a friendly reminder about the Kakariko High School football game that happened last two or three days ago.

Blake took another napkin and tried again to wipe off his eyes, it remained in dark smudges in the inner and outer corners of his eyelids.

A server brought them their water and coffee. Link wondered, briefly, if he could trust it, but he was pretty sure they would have said something about it. He risked taking a sip—felt okay. He took a deeper swig. Blake looked in the caddy and shifted through the pre-packaged jams, until he found a couple of black berry and he set them out beside he coffee, waiting for toast. Link thought about getting to work, then the thought about Dinsday and the meeting in the scrapyard, and the visit he owed Aryll.

"What are you thinking about?" Blake asked suddenly.

"My sister."

"Ah." That was no much by way of conversation, and he figured Blake would find a way to swing it back to the robbery sooner or later. Blake nodded, frowning deeply as if he was making a mental note about something, "Is that all you've got? One sister?"

Link considered his answer carefully. No, he did not just have one sister—he also had Marin. Marin could be difficult to explain properly, so he half-lied, "Two sisters—one younger, one older. No parents."

"Oh." Blake's eyes shifted, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"What about you?"

"Oh—yes, I've got parents. I've got a sister, too. Older one. It's strange to say it, but she'd a—" Blake laughed at some inside joke, "Ah, you would not believe me, never mind. She thinks I'm the perfect example of a college student, you know."

He was in college?

Link hissed, "To hell with _my _motives. You've got parents and a career ahead of you—what the hell are you doing risking it all on this?"

Blake's eyes drifted to the side and away as if there was a truly gripping tale to tell about it, he sighed longingly, pursed his lips, and then looked back to Link, "What about you? What made you take the plunge? You're obviously defensive about it."

Link got defensive: "Am not!"

Blake raised his eyebrows and tilted his chin down, giving him a look that clearly said he was taking none of Link's shit. "You were shouting at a statue."

"My sister." he explained, "When the water was poisoned, she was one of the ones effected."

"Oh." Blake paused, coffee cup halfway to his lips. His expression abruptly changed from jabbing skepticism to genuine concern, "I'm so sorry to hear that? Is she—did she survive?"

"Yes."

Relieved, Blake nodded and resumed drinking his coffee, Link resumed telling his tale, "But we would never get the money together to pay for her treatment—or we'd be paying it for years. So I went to the Moblins."

Blake almost choked on his coffee. Link saw him very nearly spit it out, then he remembered he needed to behave with some dignity and _not_ make a mess for some poor server to clean up, so he took a breath through his nose, swallowed it, and breathed out again. He pressed his hand, fingers spread, against the edge of the table and asked in a slow, straining voice, "You—you did _what_?"

Link could not see his problem. He straightened up in his seat and said clearly, "I went to the Moblins and we reached an agreement, they would pay me and I would work for them."

Blake rubbed his temples, then ran his fingers roughly over his red-blond eyebrows, down the sides of his nose and to his chin, leaving two long black streaks. He did not say a word. His face held all the disapproval he needed to convey.

"What? It's not like they would do anything to M—"

"No!"

"—arin or Aryll—"

"Now I know their names!_ Why did you do that!?_"

"If I was killed—we agreed. They would never do anything to them."

"It never crossed your mind that, you know, if you died there would be literally no one stopping them from doing it anyway?"

Blake looked down at his hand and saw the black on his fingers. He wiped them on the condensation of the edge of his water glass, then rubbed a napkin over the outside, getting as much water as he could. He started to scrub his chin and around his mouth. Link thought about it. No. No he had not. He did not have a convincing reply, so he just asked, "You don't trust Moblins? That's kind of racist."

"It's not that they're Moblins. If you told me you had gone to be an informant to the Gerudo—or, Hylia forbid, the Bombers," he began to count on his fingers, "Or-or the Triforce Triads, or the Poe Boys—I'd say the same thing—You can't trust criminals."

"You're a criminal."

"And so are you, dummy." he replied, "But, look, at least I'm not self-serving—Wait. No I _am_ self serving but I'm not self-serving at the expense of—Okay, no I'm that too but I'm self-serving at the expense of people that _deserve_ it. Your sisters don't have any idea you did it, right?"

"Of course not—I wouldn't want to worry them."

"Oh, yes, delightful, how sweet. That's very kind of you." Blake did not mean that. "Now when you get yourself killed they'll have no idea_ why_ the rug gets rudely jerked out from under their feet. You're a real great brother, you know that?"

Link tried to avoid raising his voice, "Well, what about your family?"

"Completely safe." Blake replied, leaning back, "Because I work for myself. An option that is now closed of to your forever because you—"

What ever anger had been there faded quickly. Blake looked away and saw that their breakfast was on the way. He went quiet while the waiter came over and delivered their food, then topped off Blake's coffee. He had the memory of a nasty black eye, but a jolly glimmer there, too, and a split on his lower lip with an absent-minded grin and a spring to his step. He was the only happy waiter in the place. When he walked away, Blake continued, much calmer now that he was spreading blackberry jam on his toast, "—This is the heart of Moblin Territory. It's different for me. I live in Lanayru. We don't have gangs there—well, we DO but it's just the Bombers and they're little boys, much like you—other independents. We have our share of issues with the Moblin gang but mostly, we don't clash. You made a shitty choice, but you made the best shitty choice available to you. It would have been smarter to go to a money lender—but you're, what? Fifteen? No one would loan money to you—and lenders in Kakariko are horrible. Linebeck's the nicest one and I still deliver my goods to him with a fishing pole. And even if you did, you would _still_ end up owing someone when all was said and done."

"I'm seventeen."

"Oh. You don't look it." he replied. He took a bite of toast, "Look—I'm sorry I got upset with you. Eat your breakfast. I'm still paying for it."

"And they wouldn't do anything to Aryll she's only—she's barely fifteen."

Blake frowned at him, he clearly did not believe him, if the pursed lips and rolled eyes proved anything, but he did not say anything about it. He did not try to make a point of anything, he just muttered, "Fine—Fine they wouldn't do anything to Aryll she's only fifteen." then he muttered in an even lower tone, "Nayru give me the love needed not to pop a cap in this poor boy's ass." he heaved a sigh through his teeth, then shook his head, disgusted with himself and every thing around him, devoting his time to scarfing down his breakfast. Link followed his lead, and managed to grow comfortable before Blake interrupted him again, "So—if Aryll was your motivation, what's our local Hero of Time going to do about the poison in the water supply? Or did you already do something?"

Link did not want to talk, but he did, "I'm going to the water treatment plant sometime, sure."

"Yeah, but when?"

"What? You want to help?"

"Well—I almost feel obligated, knowing what I know. But it's obvious you're not going tonight." Blake had found a subject he could press, and so he pressed it, "Dinsday?"

"No. Not Dinsday. Heard it was going to freeze."

And he had that meeting.

Blake nodded, "True enough—but the evidence is going to get washed away very soon, don't you think? Tonight would have been the night to do it. Tomorrow might be our only shot—or perhaps tonight."

"It probably already has." Link replied, "But I'm still going to see if I can find anything. There has to be something. Even if its just a record of what was put in it—it got to so many people, there had to be a lot of it, right? There has to be something Ganondorf left behind."

"No—No I'd advise against it now." He shook his head, "Ganondorf cleans up pretty good. He's very thorough. You want to find something, you have to right to the source. You have to break into the fortress itself to even catch a glimpse of his dirt."

"And I'm guessing you think together we'll be able to pull it off? You want to do _that_?"

Blake laughed, his eyes closed and his shoulders shook with it, "Oh—Oh maybe—but I'm not dumb enough to try!" he stopped laughing, bent over, and warned him, "Even with an army I would not touch that place."

"Triforce isn't a tempting enough prize for you?"

"I don't steal what I want—I steal what I can sell. I steal what gets me a profit. Its tempting, but all of the money in the world could not get me to glance at those damn golden triangles."

This was leading up to something. It was written all over his face. Link figured he might as well play along. He tried to sigh with annoyance, but just wound up smiling, "What would get you to glance at them, Blake?"

"All the Golden Leaf ale in the city, and a pretty, red-headed girl to serve it up—but I don't think the Triforce grants wishes like that."

He did not like where that ended up. He figured the Triforce could give you knowledge, bravery and supernatural abilities, wishes like _that_. Which, admittedly, were things that the every-man like Blake, or even himself, would never wish for. So, no, he did not think so. He thought of the only redhead he knew, and tried to imagine Marin agreeing to serve Golden Leaf Ale to anyone, considering it was the alcohol that drove her father to a mad stupor every night. He doubted it. Certainly not a complete stranger. The very idea offended him just a little bit. He frowned "_Must_ she be a redhead?"

"Yes."

Link did not mention Marin. He figured the less said about her the better. So, yes, he did know the perfect allure of a red-headed woman, the clear blue eyes, the white skin that never tanned—only freckled—and there was, of course, the fiery temperament, which Marin adamantly dismissed as stereotyping and falsehood, but Link had learned to regard it as empirical, quantifiable truth. There were a great many _other_ things about Marin that came to mind, too; how she cared too much, and worried too much, and had probably been meant for something great, like a lawyer or a doctor, or something fantastic, like a singer or an artist. Link thought about how she used to sing, and it occurred to him that he had not heard it in years.

And it was such a little thing, in the grand scheme, but he missed it, so much so suddenly. He missed her singing. What else did he miss? He missed being a child, having a real family and no cares in the world. He missed going to Spectacle Park on weekends, the Abigail Preserve, the museums around New Hyrule, the lake during the summer. That took him back to another time—when they were younger, he was five and she was seven, and because neither one had cared, they had left their sleeping bags early, rushed down to the waters edge and stripped down to nothing; dove in, swam far away from shore and watched the sunrise from what felt to them, and their short limbs, to be miles out. His parents pulled them out of the water quickly, and scolded them for being in the lake unsupervised. Marin's mother was upset because she had chosen to do it naked.

He had not understood why she was mad at the time, but he had been young, and he had not known much about the world, or about bodies, or about people in general. It was not until recently that he had found himself staring up at the ceiling at night, wondering what Marin looked like undressed _now, _trying to fill in the gaps in his own mind of the shape she took under her dress,that he realized, o_h—this is it. This is why she was upset._ Usually when he remembered that, he tried to push thoughts of Marin's body from his mind, he tried to remind himself of the formless little girl he had seen in the murky water, how he was just like a kid brother to her, how the entire balance of their lives depended on _not_ developing feelings like that for each other, because they always, always went sour. When that failed, and that usually failed, he tried to remind himself that she was just in the next room and the walls were thin—and so was Aryll and either one of them would be able to hear him if—

"What's with _that_ look?" Blake frowned, "What are you thinking about_ now_?"

Link asked again, with a little tinge of jealousy, "But really—must she?"

Blake replied in a flat and authoritative tone, "Yes. She must. Get yourself a ginger, boy—your life will turn around instantly."

Once again, Link did not mention Marin. He thought back to the stunt he had pulled in Farore's church and figured this was just _one more _reason to not like Link Blake—but just because he did not really like him did not mean he did not trust him. He did not really like the Moblins, though Larry was nice enough, and he trusted them enough. Link looked down at his pancakes. Everyone needed something to worship. Marin had her Golden Goddesses, Ganondorf had his Tri-force, the Moblins had money, and for Blake, it must be the magical life-altering power of redheaded women. Who was Link—the guy who did not have anything to believe in—to judge?

"Sorry—you have a red-headed ex or something?"

"No." He had a red-headed "never happening" but Link did not say that out loud, because he would have to say that it was his "sister" and that would be awkward, of course he could just come clean and say Marin was not his sister but—Link got the feeling he would get a little bit more amusement out of _not_ telling him the truth.

Blake gave him a brief side eye and tapped his fork against the side of his plate then set it down. He gave his next statement the dignity of being said sitting up and _not_ talking with his mouthful.

"Look, I'm a nice fellow."

Link looked up at him. He nudged the plate away and folded his arms on the table and said frankly, "I can't help you get out of this—I really can't. I'm sorry, but you've made this bed, lie in it. I can at least add a few extra pillows. I can make you someone they will want in their corner—someone they would not screw over lightly. That's the best protection you can get for Marin and Aryll—I'll do what I can for you, for their sake."

* * *

You guys want a chapter about Marin?

Too fucking bad you're getting a chapter about Marin.

Don't get me wrong, I LIKE Link, but he's shit for world-building, really. He just doesn't notice enough. He notices the wrong things. He moves too fast, too plot-oriented. So Link's taking a backseat for this chapter and we'll get a look at Marin—I kind of owe to her.


	8. Chapter 8

Interlinking:

(Disclaimed)

GOSH DARN IT ALL THE CHAPTERS FROM MARIN'S POV. SO MUCH WORLD BUILDING. ALL THE WORLD BUILDING.

BORING? WHAT IS BORING?

* * *

Chapter eight:

Marin woke with the sound of the front door slamming shut. She sat bolt upright and looked towards Aryll's side of the bed, and she gasped slightly, reaching for the blankets and pulling them back. Where was she? Where was she?

Oh. Right.

The hissing storm of swearing continued in the living room, and she remembered that Aryll was safe in the hospital. She heard footsteps and thought, for just a second, that it was a thief. She reached for the nightstand, where she had pepper spray hidden in the drawer, and felt a little rush of fear when she wondered why the noise had not awoken Link already, then she heard Link say, "Fuck. No. Marin."

She froze. Link was quiet. She was quiet. She moved her hand away from the pepper spray and slowly sank down into the bed again, not making a single noise. Closing her eyes, but keeping her ears open. She stared up at the ceiling and she heard Link mumble, "Okay, okay, just put everything away before she wakes up."

It was chilly. She covered herself with the blankets and turned her back to the bathroom door, but kept her eyes open. She blinked, rearranged the bed covers so it did not look like she had disturbed them, and waited, ready to pretend to be asleep when Link crept through. He did not creep through. She heard him hiding things around the living room, undressing quickly, and laying back down on the couch. She turned over, glanced at her clock. She had to get up in ten minutes to—

No. No she did not.

She did not have to go anywhere. Link did not have to be at work until much later. She might as well let him sleep. She closed her eyes, tried to grab a few more winks for herself. None came. She stared at the window, watched the sun start to seep through the window, over the back fence. She yawned, thought about breakfast, then thought about taking a shower. It was Gildenday. The water should be safe again—but could she really trust it?

She could not go look for a job with out taking a shower.

Had Link fallen asleep, or was he still awake?

Marin decided to wait just a little while longer, and she walked through what she could do that morning—she did not want to take the bus with Link. She was tired of trying to get answers from him, and it was not working, anyway—but Ordon and Faron would be the best places to look for work, and he would never trust her to stay here, not after he had spent about two minutes hiding so much stuff. She would look. She had a damn good reason to look. He knew she would look.

What was the best thing to do? The best route to take today?

Head to the library, get a job application—did she have spare change for photocopies? She glanced towards the night stand again. Two half-rupee coins—she could make change somewhere along the way. She should go to Parasol Tower next, ask for a little extra work this week, until she could find a second part-time job. There was no way she could ask for full time, though—they would let her go and hire someone not so desperate—someone they would not have to pay health care for.

She sighed heavily and looked at the clock again. She wanted to move—but she wanted to avoid waking Link. She had not waited long enough yet. She wanted to really make sure he got a little sleep.

She wanted to make sure he got on the bus on time, though. The last thing they needed was _him_ losing a job, too, so she would stay and make sure he got to work on time—even if that meant less time to look for work. She got up and crept into the bathroom, she flipped on the lights and stared at the sink.

It was Gildenday.

The water should be safe again.

The news said it would be safe today.

Marin stared at the water running from the bathroom tap to the drain, and she waited, she went back to thinking, trying to recall any member of her family that could possibly help her find a job. None of them seemed very likely. The best choice was something close—but the close things were all filled up, usually. There was a nice dress shop run by a Rito woman close by—was she hiring? Of course, she might expect Marin to know how to sew—because it was a prom dress shop. It was not her usual choice of jobs but—Aryll would go to prom one day, right? If she worked there, they might pick up a dress cheaply.

Maybe.

She waved her fingers under the water, felt a sudden burst of pain, and drew her hand back with a little gasp.

It was just hot. The water had just heated up. That was all. She turned on the cold water and ran her hand under it—instant relief. How long would she have to wait until she knew? A minute? Five minutes? Fifteen? She waited for a long time—she did not feel anything. If something was going to happen, it would have happened by now. She turned on the shower and waited a little while, bunching her hair back in a loose, messy bun while she made sure any of the acid in the pipes was washed away before taking off her nightdress and stepping in, pulling the curtain behind her.

When she was dressed, she stuck her head out of the bedroom and looked at Link on the couch. He was sound asleep. She slipped past him and put on a pot of coffee. He would probably sleep through the sound of boiling water. She kept an eye on the time, and reminded herself that, if she had free time, she might as well come back and do some laundry. They had not been able to do it while the water was not clean—of course, now that it was, the little laundromat around the corner would probably be flooded with other people—but it would be nice for all of Aryll's clothes to be clean when she came home.

Link turned over on the couch, heard the water boiling, and woke up. Marin did not say anything about how he just came in half an hour ago. She just poured herself a cup of coffee and scooted away from the machine. He took a shower, came out of the bathroom clean shaven for the first time in a while—but shaving did nothing for dark circles. He took two cups of coffee, did not say a word, and yawned a lot. Marin did not bother trying to talk to him, but she also made a point of not staring at him too much—she knew that made him feel awkward, and she felt not staring in silence was better than staring in silence. He looked pale, sleepy, tired. Half way through his second cup of coffee he dropped his head into the bend of his arm on the counter

Marin had to say something, "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah." he replied voice echoing off the wood, "I'm good."

He was not good and it was clear as day. Marin stood there, tailbone pressed against the counter. Now that he could not see her, she could not stop looking at him. Was was wrong with him? What was he up too? Why was he not telling her? She felt herself about to drum her fingers on the counter, then she realized that was rude, stopped immediately, and just folded her hand over the edge. She drained her cup and set it down softly by the sink, glanced at her watch, and then said, "You could lay down on the couch—we don't have to leave yet."

"No." Link replied. He straightened up and topped off his coffee. He frowned, probably thinking to himself, how dare he show any kind of weakness in front of her? Marin held back a frustrated sigh. His transparency was not his fault—and, amazingly, her unemployment was taking center stage, not whatever he was up too. She knew that was wrong. He could have done something horribly illegal last night.

Of course, he could have just gone for a walk—he _did_ go for long walks when he was upset, and he had plenty of reasons to be upset. Leaving the house early in the morning was not like him, though. Had he not gotten any sleep at all? One more thing she would worry about. She glanced at her purse by the door, walked over to it and searched it: couple more coins, crumpled green bills, and one blue, five-rupee bill. Enough for some photocopied applications, a little for bus fare. Not enough for lunch.

She glanced back at Link. His head rested on the counter again.

"Do you have money for lunch?"

He jumped a little and looked at her. Had he fallen asleep? Did she just wake him?

"I—Um." he checked his wallet, shook his head, and reached into his front pocket, he found a wad of bills and change, "Yeah."

He straightened them out and put them in his wallet, and she thought she saw—she could have _sworn_ she saw—a little flash of orange in the crumpled bills. A hundred rupee bill? No. No there was no way Link had that kind of money. She must have imagined it. It must have been a yellow bill that had been washed with someone's red dress or something. Something stupid like that. There was no way. She glanced at his face for a bit. He was frowning—not a sad kind of frown. An angry kind. _Did_ he have a hundred rupee bill? Where had he gotten it? Had it been stolen?

No—No Link would not do that.

"You—You got anything?"

She lied. "Yes."

"I've got twenty rupees here—" he took out his wallet again, "You're going to be running around all day. You're going to work up an appetite. Take it."

"No—no."

He would not let her refuse. He walked up to her, took out the bank note, and closed her fingers around it. She glanced down at the wallet in his right hand. She could not help it.

_He did have a hundred rupees in there._

Marin tried very hard not to let this horrifying revelation show on her face—where had he gotten it? Had he lied about Beedle? Why did he want to hide it from her? Did he—not want the money to go to Aryll? Why would he do that? He stuffed the wallet in his pocket again. It did not look like he had noticed. She had to avoid jumping to conclusions. Link had good reasons and he was not a horrible person. She would not be here if he was. She would have left, called the city and had Aryll taken away. There was no possible way Link was up to something bad.

Giving her the money had made him happier. He smiled as he walked away, had a little spring in his step. She glanced down at it and put it away in her own wallet. What was he up too? What had he done? No one just left that much money laying around in the gutter.

She must have imagined it—but if she stayed, she the curiosity would eat at her until she opened her mouth about it, and she was tired of putting him on the spot. Besides, what if she was _wrong_? He would think she did not trust him. And was was worse was that is was _true. _Right now, yes, she had a hard time trusting him.

She should stay. She should stay and make sure he got to work, but he was grown up enough to know where he need to be and what time and he had never been late before. She had to trust him. He was acting strange but that was no reason to think he had become completely unhinged.

She had to force herself to trust him right now, but she did. "I'm going." she said.

"Oh." his face dropped again, "Okay. I'll see you."

"I'll go see Aryll today."

"Yes—I'll see you there."

She shut the door behind her.

The welcome mat had moved.

What was he _up to?_

She did not bother fixing it. She told herself, once again, that she had imagined that orange rupee bill and headed down Outset Street to Gaepora Street, she turned left at the intersection—Gaepora Public Library was just three blocks away, past the Temple of Farore. She stopped, just for a second, and considered going in for just a moment to offer her prayers. There was so much she needed to pray for. She should. She would feel better. If Link had money—she thought about the three green rupees in her purse. She should donate them.

"It's so strange to see—"

Marin jumped and gasped, head turning towards the voice. It was Larry—the resident drug peddler—baggy clothes, jutting tusks and all, out of morbid curiosity, she checked for any new missing teeth—nope. Still the same fakes and gaps and metal tips as usual. She wondered why they were like that—none of what he pushed caused missing teeth. His head was freshly shaven, and he looked a little worn down.

"Link's clothes are always too small, yours always look too big."

Under a layer of powder, Marin's face reddened. Larry was right. The blue dress cinched tight at her waist, because it wrapped, but she could not hide the looseness in the hips and shoulders. He was sharp, despite the fact that he was just a few more bad choices away from being a bum.

"Thought you'd be at work today." his smile dropped and he looked genuinely concerned. He had been leaning casually against the fence, hands in his pockets. He glanced around, "Something up?"

There was a particular something on his mind. Marin did not bother asking what.

"No work." she replied, "I was laid off."

"Oh." He looked away and wrung his hands. "I—I'm sorry. I—Good luck."

She forced herself to be polite, "Thank you."

If Larry had anything to do with Link's extra money, she would kill him. She was upset about the interaction, but she did not let it show in her face. He would not leave. If she went into the church, he would still be there. She turned on her heel. She had no interest in speaking to someone who sold Hoyi Extract for a living, let alone implied there was was something decent about it by calling it, "liquid empathy," or what ever punchy marketing ploy he was using this week. He was good for one thing, and one thing only in Marin's opinion—and that was making her walk faster, maybe sway her hips a little less, and break her awful habit of making eye-contact with complete strangers.

Marin walked past the cast bronze statue of Kaepora Gaebora, the library's founder some sixty or so years ago. The Gaebora family had been influential, particularly in Kakariko, for more than just sixty years. Every two years there as a new Gaebora running for office—their councilor was Kaepora Gaebora the fifth, the library's founder's grandson. Now days, the library was run by two of his paternal great-great nieces, Sephora and Lenora. Marin snickered to herself, remembering the days when children used to challenge each other to saying all of the living Gaebora family as a game.

The library was cool and quiet inside. It was early still, so it was just dotted with some people, mostly staff. There were only three people in that day that did not look like they worked there. There was a dark-haired girl browsing the periodicals to Marin's left, and a curly-haired student with red-blonde hair sitting at the table. On the computer at the far end, there was someone else—but Marin could not see his face, it was hidden by the computer, so he must be short, a kid skipping school. She walked through the sensors behind the door, there was a portrait of the library in the Kakariko that was to her right, next to an antique clock that was made by someone famous, or perhaps just an heirloom from the family. The carpet was tan, covered the first floor, and went up the stairs to the second floor, where the children's books and movies were.

She went to Lenora behind the front desk and asked quietly, "I'd like a standard job application, please—and is your photocopier working today?"

"Yes. It's working." she glanced down at the spread of papers in front of her, nearly going cross-eyes in her little noise-pinching glasses. Tax forms, job applications for higher company positions, manual labor in construction work and agriculture, and the more basic ones for service jobs and retail. Lenora picked up one packet, and handed it to her, "Here you are, dear. Best of luck."

"Thank you—can I get a pen, please?"

"Of course." she looked around for one on the desk, did not find one, and took the black pen from where it was stuffed in her tight bun. Her hair did not fall—it was really secured by pins and hair spray. The sweet old woman had been around so long and was so set her in ways she still called it 'spray net' and remembered the first days of machine-made, seamless nylons, when _proper_ ladies would draw the seams on the backs of their shins, and she always told Marin everyone would respect her more if she drew on a fake seam with eyebrow pencil, too.

Every time she came into Parasol Tower.

Marin did not believe it for a second.

She smiled, took the pen and the application, and sat down at the only available table, where the young man was, surrounded by a little fortress of books and packets of paper. The area around him was littered with hand-written notes. He was typing furiously. When she sat down caddy-corner to him he stopped and glanced at her, then glanced back at his computer. His laptop's power cord was held rigid near the jack by a rudimentary support lattice of tooth picks and electrical tape. The keys on the keyboard were clearly mismatched—some were even _white, _while the laptop itself was black. The printed finish on the back was a little dinged up.

Then he stopped again, rested his chin on his hand, and very slightly, turned his face towards her, just a tiny bit.

Marin angled herself so she could not see him at all and focused on writing her address, 0393 Outset Street, Kakariko. No phone number. She had an e-mail address, though M_Wesson —

He went back to furiously typing.

She should check it while she was here—she would need to use one of the computers, anyway. She did not remember Romani bottling plant's address, and she did not know the address of the little cafe she worked at. She skipped them, filled out what she knew, and wish she had references aside from past employers. She did not want to include her supervisor at Romani. She looked over at Lenora—she was nice enough, and she certainly liked Marin—or, at least, she _acted_ like she liked her. She stood up, went to the desk, and asked as politely as she could, "Excuse me, Miss Gaebora—could I list you as a reference, just here?" she pointed to the line on the form.

"Well of course, dear. You know, everyone asks. I'll write down everything you need."

Marin smiled, took the phone number from her, and returned to the desk, a little more lighthearted. When she turned around, the strawberry blonde at the table abruptly looked away from her and back to his computer screen.

Marin sat down again, copied down the phone number, and continued working. When she was done with the application, three references, five past jobs, and her contact information, she went to the computer, logged in with her library card number and password, and checked her e-mail. It was mostly spam, and that flooded out any e-mails from her past job search that she had not panned out because she had gotten the job at the cafe. She filled out the addresses and phone numbers she was missing, logged out again and went to the photocopier to make as many copies of the job application she could. If Ganondorf did one good thing for people—it was streamlining the application process. Maybe it was the only good thing he did. Marin did not really care. The point _was_ that it was done.

She returned the pen to Lenora and started the long and boring process of stapling each and every application together. The dark haired girl moved up the flight of stairs, she yawned when she was halfway up. The guy at the table was typing up a storm, gripped by sudden inspiration.

She left the library just as quickly as she came, then went to the bus and took it to Faron—she had looked for plenty of jobs in Ordon when she went for the application, and Eldin was mostly manufacturing jobs—and she was not interested in working in Lanayru just yet. It was mostly service, too—but it was so close to the richest folks, she was not ready for that, not yet—and no one found work in Kakariko. Ever.

The first place she saw was a little store for Ulrira wireless. Marin had never owned a cell phone in her life and knew next to nothing about them. She knew they came in fancy ear-pieces these days that somehow managed to pick up your voice even though they were just by your ear. She knew this because more than once someone had been speaking on one and she had though they were speaking to _her_. A job was a job, though—and she did not _look_ like she had never owned a cell phone before. Maybe she could fake it, just enough.

She went up to the desk and tried to hand over the first application. The man behind it did not take it. Marin pressed a little harder, "I'd like a job."

"We prefer the ones that aren't photocopied."

Marin huffed. Ganondorf may have stream-lined the application process, but he could not force anyone to not be a dick.

"Everyone does." she replied coolly. She was not keen on writing the same thing twenty times over. So she had decided, some time around her second run through this dance, that it was only fair to not give the original copy to anyone. Marin knew saying this out loud would set her back about five paces. Sass was never appreciated.

He still did not take it.

"Is the manager in?"

"Yes."

"Can I speak with them?"

"He's busy."

They always said that. Being a bother would probably hurt her chances, too. She put on a smile and set it down on the counter. Begrudgingly, he muttered, "I'll pass it along."

He was not going to pass it along—but she did not want to risk spoiling her chances by taking it back. She would call back in a day or so on a payphone to make sure they got it. She wished she had a pen to write down the address on the original application. She looked in her purse. She had a pencil. Good enough. She scrawled the address and phone number that were written on the front door in the back, it was a little messy.

She went right next door to a coffee shop, a Joanne's—she had no idea why their logo was a mermaid, or why there was practically one on every corner. The coffee was not particularly good, nothing was worth the price. She got fed the same lines, which she answered with a smile.

At least she got to speak with the manager this time. She gave Marin a once over, probably took her low weight for vanity, and said, "We won't take it unless it's hand-written."

"I don't see why not—it's perfectly legible. Look and see for yourself. It's just fine."

She did not take it, "If it's too much trouble, you can apply online."

"I don't have a computer." she confessed, "Besides—I've got this. If you aren't looking for someone at this location—perhaps you know of one somewhere else?"

"No."

She went five blocks up the streets and turned the same application in at a different Joanne's with no problem. It was getting close to mid-terms for college students. They were dropping out of their jobs like flies. It was a good time to pick up work, actually, particularly near the college; in the book stores, the fast-food restaurants. She had never been a sandwich artists before—but how hard could it be, outside of the lunch rush?

Of course—Faron bordered Koholint, her old stomping ground. Getting a job close to that border would just make it easier for her father to come around and heckle her, once word got around she was working within spitting distance of him again. She did not want that, but maybe he would not find out. She doubted it. How was Koholint doing? Had it gotten better or worse? Last she heard, Moblins were moving into the trailer parks—and that sounded worse, really, and Windfish Records had moved their head quarters and recording studio out and into Lanayru. The Skyloft Media complex, actually. Top floor.

Well—_that_ would certainly be a place to land a job, Marin thought to herself as she sat down on a park bench. She rolled her ankle. Her heels and toes hurt from walking so much in her shoes—half inch heels had never bothered her so much before. She stared across the street to a little two-story mall. It was all glass and polished steel, and plastered over the windows was an ad for some starlet the label was sponsoring on the radio. She had five job applications left. She was going to chose the jobs in the mall very carefully. They had to be available, otherwise, they would not be worth it. It was a five minute walk to the nearest bus stop from here, and she would have to trek around the mall. She looked back down at the paper in her hands. She knew Oracle's was hiring—that was it. No where else had an ad out.

A tall blonde woman jogged past, she looked to be talking to herself, but Marin caught a glimpse of a hand-less cellphone model from Ulrira in her right ear. She was jogging so no one could hear her conversation—judging by the look in her dark eyes, in was intense, "No." Marin heard her say as she came up, "Dinsday. I told you—No. Coffee and _do-not._ I swear you're half the reason I—_"_

She passed out of ear shot. Marin turned and watched her go around the paved jogging track of Spectacle Park. It curved through the twin rocks, under the bridge, and then went over it, snaking around through a grove of trees. She became a little dot on the opposite side of the park. Marin turned around again, slipped her foot out of her shoe, and massaged her heel through her nylons. It was about noon. She would eat after she turned in the last five applications, go see Aryll after wards, and just rest there, wait for Link.

The jogging woman came around again, "If you screw over the entire investigation for a hunch. AGAIN."

She stopped far away from Marin, under some trees. She wished she had stopped closer—she could use the entertainment. She set her tall, narrow frame down on a bench, stretched out her legs and panted heavily, mostly from anger. Was she a member of the police? What was she investigating?

She massaged her other foot. She should have put some padding into her shoes. She would know better next time—and there would be a next time. There was always a next time. No blisters, though. Occasionally, she glanced to the woman, she was stretched out, her head leaning back, Marin could not hear what she was saying, but she still looked kind of upset, from this distance.

Marin slipped her shoes back on and got to her feet. There was only a little pain. She went to Oracle's first, gave them the application, which they gladly took. By that time there was a little pain, but she found out there were two more stores that were hiring in the area, only two. She gave them her applications as well, and sat down for lunch. She did not want to spend the money. She knew she should save it, but Link had been right, she was starving.

She wondered about him as she ate, but she did not want to check in on him at work. Too far a walk. Did he even get to work? She hoped he did. She should have stayed and made sure—she really should have. She looked at the last two job applications—she was saving them for something else. She did not know what yet, but something else. She took the bus and got off as close as she could to the hospital.

She hoped Link would not tell Aryll she had lost her job.

* * *

Oracle's slogan is probably something corny, like _A look for all seasons... A look for all ages._

... I love this fanfic so much.


	9. Chapter 9

Interlinking

(disclaimed)

Dyslexia: Playing three different Legend of Zelda games and only noticing on a fourth play through THAT "BEEDLE" IS SPELLED WITH A"D"

Why did no one SAY anything?

Did someone say something and I missed it?

* * *

Chapter nine:

It would be nice to say that Blake kept both his word _and_ his distance. As nice as he seemed, Link could not help but be wary of him. It would be nice to say Link never saw him again at all, too, but that was simply not true. Gildenday had come and was halfway out the door, and the only reminder of last night was an orange rupee that he had found in his pocket, one that he had stolen from Malladus's couch, thinking that it was chump change, nothing. Marin had very nearly seen it, but she might not have noticed it. It was still in his wallet, though. He had no idea what he would do with it—probably just go by the bank and exchange it for smaller bills. One hundred was really not much—not comparatively speaking—but it was a lot to find in a couch by accident.

Larry would probably have a message for him when he came back by—to bad he would be with Marin when he walked past, though—and he needed to go to the scrapyard. If he was going to go to the water treatment plant—and he needed to do that _soon,_ Blake was right—he would need to see what was in the hideout. Anything he had could help him, and there _had _to be something. He would have to take a bus to the scrapyard, maybe walk back to the house.

He opened the door to Aryll's room.

She looked much better today. Her face was rosy again, scrubbed clean. The bathrobe was draped over shins and knees, the blankets were untucked on the right hand-side of the bed, and the slippers were pointing in towards the bed, not away. All signs that she had been able to get up and move around. There was a bouquet of fresh, giant, yellow and orange starbursts and a bushel of purple cascadas tied with a pink ribbon and dotted with white cloud-daisies on her chest of drawers. They brightened up the room.

"Where did all _this _come from?" Link asked as he poked a shiny, helium-filled "get well soon" balloon. It bobbed in the air and swayed on its cheap ribbon, eventually coming back to its place, straight up, pulling at the string, and tied at the foot of Aryll's bed, next to her chart.

She tilted her head innocently, "Oh? It's not from _you_?"

"N-no."

"But your name is on the card." she pointed insistently to the flowers, "Look—look it says Link."

He looked. She was right. It was no his handwriting, though, it was curving, looping, obviously written by the flower store clerk. He doubted _she_ was named Link.

"Class mate, maybe? You know, the one you beat the kid up for?"

She had a healthy appetite for sarcasm: "Yes. A fourteen-year-old can afford to buy me fresh flowers."

"Well _I _certainly can't." Link insisted, "You must have seen who brought them?"

"Yes—A nurse." she replied, "I didn't see anyone else."

"Alright." Link shrugged. He did not think about the other candidate—Link Blake. After all, he hardly _knew _Aryll, and certainly he did not knew her well enough to buy her flowers. No one was that generous. Maybe Marin had done it, trying to hide the fact that she had lost her job. There was no way he was sharing that information with Aryll, either. He pulled up a chair—It was her class mate. End of story. He noticed Aryll had papers spread around her, and a clip board propped up on her knees, "Home work going okay?"

He knew she struggled with math, after all.

"No." she shook her head, she moved the homework and clip board where he could not see them, "No, I'm good."

Was she—hiding something?

Link could have slapped himself—What did _Aryll_ have to hide? She was not even fifteen yet. He leaned back in the chair he had pulled up and said, "How have you been?"

"Okay." she replied. It was guarded.

"Are you mad I didn't come by yesterday?"

She shook her head, "No." it seemed like the truth, "I don't mind. Was something up, though? Marin didn't come by, either."

"Sorry she—she was tired."

It was not entirely a lie. Aryll shrugged. She looked down at her math homework, tapped her pencil against the clip board and chewed on her lip.

"You sure you don't want help with that?"

"Yeah." she replied, "I'm sure. You're just as bad as me."

It was true. He was just as bad as her, but from Link could see, she had done some problems completely on her own.

Maybe Marin had come by early and given her a little bit of help? But how did she hide her lack of a job from her, in that case? Aryll knew Marin usually worked at Romani on Gildenday, and she knew she worked _late. _Link swept his eyes around the room, the curtain was drawn to the other side, but there was still no one behind it. There were a few cards on the dresser beside the flowers—_those_ looked more like school kids sent them, Aryll was right. Flowers were too flashy for a teenaged boy.

But Link had still not sent them.

Did Larry have something to do with this?

The door swung open, Link heard sneakers squeaking on the tile floor—not Marin's shoes. He turned around. Must be a Candy Striper or a Pink Lady or something. He was right—the blue jeans did not look the part, but the white-and-blue striped vest _did, _as well as the little cap that be longed in a vintage ice cream ad, sitting pretty on, surprise, surprise, a mop of strawberry-blonde hair. He juggled a little cardboard carrier with four Styrofoam cups and a big pair of sunglasses.

"Okay, Aryll—how far did you get with that—" he saw Link, "Oh."

Link clenched his teeth and forced himself not to swear. Aryll was in the room—and she would demand an explanation when Link stood up and called him an asshole. As far as she was concerned, Blake was just a nice, good-natured hospital Volunteer. Still—it was the inflection that counted. _"Blake."_

Calling him out by name put him on the spot. He paused, very briefly, eyes darting from one to the other. He had not told Aryll they knew each other. Link was probably the one screwing himself over here, but Blake was just too smooth, and with out a single stammer or lost word, he smiled and said, "Oh, Aryll, you meant _this _Link? Small world!"

Then, as casual as you please, he walked past Link to the chair on the other side of her bed and set down a styrofoam cup with a little plastic cap on her bedside dresser. He had four, two in the carrier, one in his hand now, which he handed to Link. It was freezing cold. Blake took one for himself and put the last one in the little personal refrigerator under Aryll's bed. Link knew she was on an all-liquid diet—but a milkshake did not seem like the kind of liquid the staff had in mind, "Is that okay?"

"Yeah. I asked. She wanted a milkshake."

"What are you _doing_ here?"

Link did not _want_ him here. Marin was about to come by—and clearly Blake anticipated this for some reason—hence the fourth milkshake. Blake blinked, his tone offended. He leaned back in his chair, spread his arms wide in a gesture of indignant challenge. He pointed to his brightly colored vest and replied, "I'm having a milkshake."

Aryll giggled.

"But—"

"I got you one, hush."

Then, to drown out Link's protests, he took a loud, obnoxious slurp. He looked right at him as he did it, too. Looked right at him and grinned.

Gosh, he was an ass.

Not enough of an ass to make him turn down a milkshake, though. Link took a little sip. It was cold, cold enough to hurt his teeth. Blake scooted closer to Aryll and began to walk her through the next problem. Link kept quiet, until they reached a stopping point, and he asked, "Did _you_ send the flowers?"

Blake glanced at the flowers, "What? No—_your_ name is on the card."

Link frowned and looked down at the name tag pinned to the front of his vest. This was clearly not his first time volunteering here. He was around enough to warrant an embossed, plastic one, not a cheap sticker. It read _Blake_ not _Link_. He was hiding his real name. Or perhaps he had lied.

"I did not send them." he replied firmly.

"Link, why would _I _give Aryll flowers, I just met her? I hardly know you!"

He was trying to give Link a message. He had all the subtly of a gun, but he was trying to give Link a message. Doubtless, with blackmail, Blake was used to working with notes thrown through windows, talking on pre-paid cellphones with programs that could change his voice. Face-to-face contact was not something he excelled in—and, to be fair, if Link had not wanted him here, he could have just _not_ told Blake Aryll's name. Link glanced back at the flowers and Blake distracted Aryll for a moment with her homework. There was something else on the card. Link ripped it off of the ribbon and stuffed it into his wallet next to the hundred rupees when she was not looking, leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and quietly sipped his milkshake.

Blake politely wrapped things up with Aryll, told her not to work too hard, and took the math homework out of her reach, replacing the pencil with the milkshake. He nodded to Link, glanced at the flowers, and left the room. Link turned to Aryll, intent on starting a conversation, then the door opened again.

It was Marin this time. She looked—okay. Not better, just okay. She glanced at the flowers, then to the cards, and the balloon at the foot of the bed. Link wanted to ask her how her day went—and if Blake had seen her in the hall. Mostly if Blake had seen her in the hall. That seemed more important. Aryll reached down and took out the milkshake, then handed it to Marin. She glanced at Link and frowned, "Should she be drinking these?"

"Well um—" This was all Blake's fault. "I don't know, some Candy Striper brought them."

"Three of them?"

"Four of them." Aryll corrected, "He was really nice."

Marin wrapped her hand around the chilled cup and frowned. She sat down in the chair, glanced at the homework, glanced at the flowers again, "Who bought those?"

"We don't know." Aryll said, "Link says it was _not_ him, certainly."

"Was there a card?"

"Yes. It just said Link. I think it was a class mate."

He glanced at Aryll. She did not say a word. The wheels in her head were turning, though. She took a wary sip of her milkshake, then dragged her eyes to Marin, straw still in her mouth, willing, demanding, that she drink it. Marin obeyed, bringing the straw to her lips. The rouge was cracking, her lips were chapped, but that was to be expected, a little was left on the straw. She stopped, "You told him to get strawberry?"

"Well, it's your favorite." Aryll told her, then she stopped, tilted her head and asked, "Isn't it?"

It was.

Marin looked ready to cry. She started to set the cup down to rub her eye, but she stopped. Her eyelids fluttered briefly, and maybe her lip quivered just a tad. Link was sure Aryll saw it. She looked away from both of them, the blank TV screen, "Thank you."

He wished he had something funny to say. When he looked at the TV, too, he thought about the news report, how they said it was an industrial accident—he knew that was a lie, too. He thought about the plant, how difficult entering it would be—and how he need to get a jump on it. Tonight, if possible—but he did not want to leave Marin alone like this and he was going to go to the scrapyard tomorrow, anyway. One excuse was easier to make than two. He could lie, say Beedle had gotten in touch with him, say he had some work lined up—but she would think he was lying and that would just make her even more sad, not happy.

That hundred rupee bill was burning a hole in his pocket, too. Marin could find more use for it than him. There was so much money he could not explain to her—but just knowing it existed would make her pretty damn happy, and that was kind of important right now. Link frowned and glared down at his milkshake. She would be too angry about how he got it to take it, though. So close, but so far away. He had to swing something—Blake seemed like the best place to turn—and that was unfortunate.

Aryll's voice cut into the silence, "Did they let you go—?"

Link's stomach turned and he nearly choked on his milkshake. How had Aryll figured it out so fast?

"—early?"

Nayru, you bitch, don't scare me like that! Link thought to himself. Marin was thinking the same thing. She put on a pretty smile and replied, "Yes, they did. They let me go a little earlier today—they needed me later yesterday. I had to cover a friend's shift."

"No wonder you were tired."

"Yes." Marin nodded, "I'm sorry I was not able to drop by, I know I said I would."

Aryll smiled, "Oh, it's fine. Really. It's fine. It was probably after visiting hours, anyway."

"Yes." she said, "it was."

Her responses were getting stiff.

Link felt like blurting out the truth right then and there. Just _screaming it, _so she did not have to be so frightened anymore. He also wanted to leave—he knew leaving was a terrible idea. There was no polite way to do it and Marin needed the moral support. He could, however, see what was hidden in the card. While Aryll and Marin chatted about this and that, and Marin made up some blatant lies about her day at work, Link got up and went into the bathroom.

He waited around, relieved himself, tested the lightbulbs for heat and turned on the water. He flushed the toilet, washed his hands, took out the card and held it up to the lights. Some inks were heat-activated, and that seemed like the one Blake would most likely use—it was the only one Link had the materials to access. He waited a few seconds, and eventually, a series of numbers gradually showed up, flushing darker each time he passed it by the hot light. A phone number? This seemed like a long way to go just to give him a phone number—then again, it was _Blake._

He stuffed it in his wallet again, shut off the lights, and went back into the main room. They hardly seemed to notice he had been gone. Aryll was talking about what the classmate that had been designated to bring her that day's homework had said what had happened during the day, and Marin was listening, nodding just enough to show she was interested and totally not thinking where they would get money next week, how they would afford to eat, how they would pay off the debt the hospital was raking up from them.

He sat down again and raked his thumbnail over the outside of the cup, eyes going from Marin to Aryll and wondering how he could leave politely—or even in good conscience. There was no way he could. So he waited—he spoke when he was asked, but did not say a word otherwise. What did he have to talk about, anyway? Today had been boring. He had done his job and when he was not being bothered or working he was stewing over Ganondorf and Zelda and knowing he should go to Hyrule Public Water Commission _tonight_ but also knowing he really needed to get some sleep, too.

Damn—thinking about sleep just made him more tired. He stiffed a yawn and tried to focus on the anger that had kept him awake through the day—it did not work. He could not be angry here—Aryll was alive and he was grateful for that, Marin was sad and afraid and that just scared him. He could not be angry.

His eyes trailed around the room—and the next thing he knew Marin was shaking him awake. The milkshake was warm in his hand and the sun had set. He looked at the clock—seven twenty four.

"Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

"Because you were tired this morning." she replied, "Come on, let's get home."

"So you let me sleep for an hour and a half?"

"Yes." she stood back and let him stand up on his own. He looked at Aryll—she did not seem to mind that he had just dozed off like that. He hugged her good-bye and held the door open for the nurse that brought her medicine. They took the stairs in silence, went down to the lobby again and headed towards the doors.

Link looked towards the line of payphones.

And he did not go towards them. He could not think of an excuse—not a good one. He and Marin waited in the fading sunlight for the last bus to Kakariko, and took the long walk in the dark back to their house. Larry poked his head briefly out of his usual haunt, but saw Marin was with him and retreated again. Link would ask him what it was he had wanted tomorrow afternoon.

He and Marin did not talk much. They made spaghetti for dinner, said a few stiff, strictly necessary words, and kept to themselves. That was okay with Link. It gave him time to think about what he should do, either head to Hyrule Public Water Commission or sleep. There was not enough time in one night to do it all—see what was in Beedle's scrapyard _and_ check the place out—he had barely slept last night and he needed to get up _early_ tomorrow. He yawned. He was already tired—if he went tonight he would be sloppy in addition to unskilled.

Marin took a shower immediately after dinner, and while she was there, distracted, Link made up his mind. He gathered up his hidden tools. The lock picks, flashlight, switch blade, the gun. Link glanced towards the bedroom door, and wondered if Marin had found it. No—when had she had the time? He still did not know how to use it. He set it down carefully, put the bandanna and hooded sweatshirt in the back pack, and slipped the lockout tool in side, too. He would need to steal a car if he wanted to get any sleep tonight. He supposed he could call Blake and ask for a ride, but he did not want to have to deal with him any more today—though Blake had clearly given him his number for this reason. When he had gathered everything he needed up, he took out the hundred rupee bill and stashed it away with the rest of his ill gotten gains in the couch cushion. He unzipped the cover, slipped it inside, and closed it again.

He heard the water shut off. He froze, quickly put the cushion back and realized the gun was still on the coffee table. He grabbed it and slid it under the couch, and waited for Marin to come out. She did not.

He should call Blake, though. Blake had asked, and he clearly wanted to help. Maybe he would be okay with going tonight?

He hid the gun in the backpack, a much better spot, snuck out, and headed to the payphone. The least he could do, he decided, was give Blake a call and see what he said about it. Maybe if he got a ride and some help, he could do it. Stealing would attract unwanted attention, Blake would never be so careless. He slipped a half-rupee coin in the slot and dialed the number. There was a long, uncomfortable pause as the phone rang out and Link wondered if something had happened to him—sure it was after nine, and sure it was a little rude to call so late but—

"Yes?" The voice on the other side of the line sounded tired, disoriented, "Hello? Who's calling?"

He was asleep already? "Blake. It's me."

There was a brief pause, "Smith?"

"Yes."

"It's late." He heard fabric moving, a body caving the mattress, "But what is it? Is everything alright?"

"No—No I'm fine, I was just thinking we should um..." he stopped himself, "Go do the thing. Tonight."

"Shit." he grumbled, "Can you—wait an hour?"

"Oh. I'm sorry, I—" Link did not want to wait an hour, but he had caught Blake at a bad time. He probably did need an hour to get some coffee and wake back up.

"No—No you didn't know. I didn't want you to know. I didn't tell you."

Link titled his head, "Tell me what?"

"I have a—" Link heard his head falling back into the pillow with a soft floofing sound. "Drinking problem."

"Oh."

"But—thank you I think you just saved me from downing in my own vomit." Link heard him stand, set the phone down on the nightstand, and leave. It was quiet after that, but if Link strained to hear, he could hear the sounds of him throwing up in the distance. He smugly propped his chin on his hand. Blake had said nothing about Marin yet—perhaps they had just missed each other. Link noticed he was running out of time. He slipped another coin in the slot, then he heard Blake return, stretch out in bed with a groan. "Better?" he asked.

"_Nope_." Blake replied, then he laughed—clearly well enough to be in a joking mood, "No—cheer me up. Tell me about that sister of yours."

Shit. Well he might as well _try_ to divert his attention. "Aryll?"

"No—_Marin._ Who else could that red-headed knockout be?"

"I hate you." He would also not bother telling him Marin hated drunks with a burning passion. Let him make a fool of himself. He'd earned it.

He laughed again, "I know, I know, but why didn't you _say_ something? I need to apologize. No. No. I have to apologize for anything I said last night that made you uncomfortable. It was extremely insensitive and I'm sorry."

Link sighed, ran a hand trough his hair and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Blake sounded sorry enough—and he was a mostly decent human being, and one of the few allies he had. This was not a bridge he could afford to burn yet. Even if he did not like him. A car zipped by at an unsafe speed—all he saw was a blur of bright green and glaring headlights. He needed Blake, so Link resigned himself to forgiveness, "Yeah, it's fine." Blake was in _no _condition to drive. Well, this was what he got for not making plans in advance. This was not Blake's fault. Link had to work with what was available to him, and right now, Blake was clearly not available—and the tired tones in his voice made Link yawn, no matter how hard he tried of fight it off. What ever adrenaline had inspired him to act to night drained away quickly—he did not feel like doing it anymore. It was time to change his plans. "What's your schedule looking like tomorrow afternoon around seven thirty?"

Blake would not let it go. "What's _Marin's_ schedule looking like tomorrow afternoon around seven thirty?"

"I will fight you over this and I will go for the eyes."

Blake laughed, genuine, a throaty, glowing cackle, but he did at least drop the subject. "I'm free." he replied, "You need me?"

"Yeah. Beedle's scrapyard." Link answered, "I'll be meeting up with someone there tomorrow—if you could drop by some time after that, give me a ride, we could go—" he stopped himself, looking around. This line could be so easily tapped. He tossed him a loaded statement. "For a..._ drink_."

Blake laughed again, "Noooo. No body goes out for drinks with _me._ I have a horrible drinking problem. If you want to drink—you come over here and you bring _Mmmm—_" There was a pause. Link imagined Blake went a little red and he caught on, "Oh. Wait. You meant—you _mean_ that little place in the Zora's quarter?"

Zora's quarter meant Lake Hylia. That meant the water treatment plant. If they were on the same page—the might not be. Link rolled his eyes, "Yeah. That place. You been there?"

"Nope. No that's not really—bars and lakes, never a good mix, you know? No—I know this nice little Karaoke bar about two block from, oh, I can't remember. We should go there. You should bring Marin. Can she sing?"

"Ease up, will you!" Link raised his voice, "Marin's lost her job. She's not in the mood."

"Oh." His voice got serious again. "I—I'm sorry to hear that. But then why are you going out? You should stay with her."

"I need to talk to them. It's important."

"Oh." Blake seemed to remember something, but he did not share it. He just told him, "Okay. Sure I'll meet you—guess you'd need a lift anyway. No problem." He heard Blake moving, writing something down, "Seven thirty, you said? Beedle's scrapyard?"

"Yes."

"Cool. I'll be there—Actually, I had better text you, you're clearly a busy Legendary Hero. Don't want to interfere with your fetch quests."

"Good luck with that. This is a payphone."

"Oh." Blake paused, made another note. "Well... Okay then." and a third note, "Just, you know... Dress _warmly._ It might be chilly."

This conversation was so loaded it was ridiculous. Link guessed he meant to cover his face, wear the hooded sweatshirt and bandanna. Or, he might actually be talking about a freeze. Though, today had not seemed like it would freeze. "Right. See you then."

"Sure."

Blake hung up first. Link went back to the house and wondered if Marin was really asleep. Weather she was or not, he still could not tell. She did not move or say a word when he walked past her and shut the bathroom door behind himself. He fumbled for the light for a second, when he finally found it, it burned his eyes just a bit. He took a cold shower. The problem was—Marin was probably not asleep. He would get in the shower and she would find her crying softly when he got out again

He yawned. Shivered.

What was scheduled tomorrow? Today had not seemed like a freeze would follow tomorrow. He should have paid more attention to the radio when the forecast played at work. He had to get up early to go work at Romani—Unless they decided to let him go, too.

That would suck.

Laundry should also be on the schedule for tomorrow—day after tomorrow, at least! Marin probably knew that already. He should tag along, too. He might as well. Laundry was usually a Hyliasday affair—but they had missed their chance. There was so much to do, and it all kept getting in the way of his investigation. Blake was right—the trail had probably already gone cold. He had to ask more questions at the hospital, if he could find out the chemical that had poisoned Aryll—he could get a vague idea where it had come from.

He turned off the water, toweled off, and changed clothes. Last of his clean underwear.

Marin was not crying.

Maybe she was genuinely asleep?

He shut the living room door behind him and looked at the electric clock on the side table. He did not have all the time in the world, and he needed to get some sleep. He unfolded the sheets and settled down on the couch. Maybe, as a joke, he would ask Beedle what became of the Four Sword tomorrow. He sure would not say no to three extra copies of himself right now. Ganondorf's plans would have to wait. He unfolded the sheets and blankets and settled down on the couch.

* * *

A little more noise from the peanut gallery would be appreciated...


	10. Chapter 10

Interlinking

(Disclaimed)

The thing I love/hate about world building are all of the missed opportunities. I was looking through chapter one. There was so much more I could have added. Adding them now would seem kind of half-assed. I really hope I find ways to work them in later.

Another thing I love are early-bird cameos. Seriously. I'm assuming none of you noticed Blake showed up in chapter three?

* * *

Chapter ten:

It was cold. Cold enough to freeze.

Link was bundled up tight again, and he wondered what he was going to do. It would be rude to have Blake come out here just to drive him home, but Marin would not want him anywhere but home in this weather. Link took a hold of the cold metal of the chain-link fence and pulled, dragging the door outward and scraping the dirt. He did not see Beedle. He saw all the signs of Beedle; the pad lock on chain-link fence was open, there was a charcoal fire burning in the barbecue, and a tiny little gosspiware radio was playing fifty-year-old tunes, mellow and groovy and accompanied by acoustic guitar—and Bessie was in her usual spot. On the trailer there was a new and curious edition. It looked like a motorcycle. Link could see the handle bars and the contour of the front tire at a resting angle under a heavy tarp. The rope tying it down held the cloth up up enough for Link to bend over and take a peek.

It was a _vintage_ motorcycle. Link had meant to look for just a second, but he caught sight of his own reflection, warped and reversed, framed by the dark shadow of the cloth, in the gleaming chrome panels. Besides, it was a little warmer under the cloth. The soft brown leather had a gentle sheen to it, even in this poor light, and it smelled factory-fresh. There were wood details, shining with lacquer and stain. On the right hand side (in relation to the seat) there was a cast metal image of a running horse, mane and tail billowing in the wind, running ahead of the bold block letters, _EPONA._

Then, suddenly, there was a flash of light and a rush of chilly air that ruffled Link's hair and made him yelp just a bit in shock. He straightened up at once, and looked at the opposite side of the trailer. There was Beedle. "You can look." he said, "But don't touch."

"Who's this for?" Link asked. He circled it. He grinned shamelessly. As soon as he was told no, he wanted to touch it. It was like a priceless museum piece; even just the new rubber of the tires, so fresh he could still see the little seam where the rubber had been cast. She was even prettier in the sunlight—the chrome was almost blinding. Beetle did not answer. He just stood back and watched, making sure Link did not lay a finger on the precious, restored piece.

It was almost an antique—so it might to go to Linebeck at some point. Link did not know of many motorcycle collectors in the city, but he knew there were a lot of wealthy people, and they always liked to buy the flashy things no one could afford. When he had made a complete circle and Beetle had not answered, Link asked again, "Who's it for?"

"Doesn't matter." Beetle frowned, and his already hunched shoulders and furrowed brows hunched and furrowed just a little bit more. He glared at the Epona like it was the scum of the earth. "It's not right."

"What are you talking about!?" Link shook his head, "It's beautiful."

Beedle was clearly not listening, "Side bags aren't the right dimensions. Embossing on the leather is all wrong, too."

Link put his hands on his hips, "I think she's perfect!"

Beedle looked away from the Epona and towards him. He looked him over and his expression softened at once, "You think so?"

"Yeah." Link nodded, "Course—" he looked back at the Epona and crossed his arms, "I'm not the one buying it, obviously."

"Not for sale." Beedle shook his head.

"Why'd you have it fixed up if you aren't going to sell it?"

He certainly was not going to drive around on it. Link imagined the run-down, stooped Beedle on the gleaming, restored, Epona and he fought back a laugh. He failed. Beedle would never dare leave Bessie unguarded—and if he were to ride a motorcycle, he would never take the time to have it meticulously restored. Or, maybe he was? He was getting on in years. Was his mid-life crisis finally coming? Well, if _this _was just the middle of his life, the entirely city could breathe easy knowing Beedle was going to live well past one hundred years.

Beedle looked at him, "What are you doing here? You going back to the hideout?"

"Yes."

He frowned again—not angry, thoughtful. He nodded, then turned away and covered the Epona back up, and all the while looked like he had something he wanted to ask. When the cloth was laid out smoothly again, he did, finally, ask, "You aren't meeting anyone here, are you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Fellow sniffed around yesterday. Dark car."

"Black Armos?" Blake again. Link really needed to tell him to back off. He said he would do all he could, but clearly he had too much time on his hands. He needed to be told to do a little less. Perhaps he did not have many friends. Link sympathized, but he was not surprised.

"No."

That was strange. Perhaps Gustav Hyslen had a dark car, too? Link tried to remembered if he had seen a car in the driveway at his place. He had not. It must have been in the garage. If felt wrong to lie to an old man like Beedle, so Link told the truth. He was owed a heads-up. "Yes. I am. A few people." Then it occurred to him that he had not asked permission. He knitted his eyebrows, felt a little guilty, "You don't mind, do you?"

He shook his head, "Nah." he looked at the cloth-covered Epona and smiled, his view of it changed completely—It was not just acceptance, but a kind of fondness now. "Just keep it down, Link."

"Sure thing."

They went their separate ways, Beedle into his trailer and Link to the hide out. He shut himself in side and searched through the folders of pictures, looking for anything on Hyrule Public Water Commission—but there was nothing there. The first Link had no need to investigate it. There were other things—pictographs of Spectacle Park, capturing the rock formation from every angle. Why fixate on that? He looked towards the street map. Spectacle Park had not been crossed out or circled. Link found a red marker and circled it, dropped the folder of pictographs next to it, and checked his watch in the skylight. Forty five minutes. He continued his search. When he found nothing, he sat down on the bench seat, covered himself with the blanket, and started throwing darts at Ganondorf to pass the time.

He never got tired of hitting him right in the eye.

Sunset came around six fifteen, and Link came out of hiding again, grateful for the blanket—though it made him look a bit insane, a bit like he lived here, not in Kakariko. He wandered towards the front gate. Beedle had moved the Epona off of the trailer and tucked it away beside his camper. He was cooking his dinner on the little charcoal barbecue when Link came by. He had little ear buds in his ears, connected to the radio. Link sat down on the trailer and waited until the sun was halfway hidden behind the horizon and the opposite side of the sky was getting dark. Any minute now, a worried-looking man in a fancy car would drive up.

Except the car was not gleaming and fancy. Link had expected something flashy, something that purred when the engine revved. Something sporty and polished. Probably red—though Beedle had told him dark, Link still had red set in his mind.

This car? Terrifying.

This car had scratches and dings and bullet holes. It was built like a small, squat tank, sounded like a war machine under the hood. The gravel sounded like it was being ground into a fine powder under the wheels. The windows were tinted. Link had not counted on Mister Hylsen being so wealthy he could afford body guards, but he saw two silhouettes when the car passed the light at just the right angle.

Link immediately regretted every decision in his life. He swallowed. It was too late to try running now. He sat there, frozen under the blanket, as the dark blue car pulled up beside the trailer, between him and Beedle. Link looked to the old man, who discreetly turned his radio down. The passenger-side window rolled down a few inches, slowly, smoothly. It was electric. The passenger was a woman with dark eyes, almost red, and pale blonde hair that was slicked away from her face, but only on the left side. On the right it hung freely, just a little bit framing her eye. All he saw of the man was a loosened, olive green tie, a dark blue blazer, and a huge chin.

And then his view was blocked by a shiny metal police badge and the woman's identification card. She held it up long enough for him to see that it was genuine. Link leaned in close, felt a little current of warm air from the inside of the car, and heard soft, static chatter.

"I am detective Impa Sheikston." she told him sharply, "Are you the one I'm here to meet?"

Link was not sure what to say. "Um—"

Her voice was scary beyond all reason.

The fellow in the car next to her leaned forward, peeking out from under her badge. His hair was bright red, obviously dyed. It was laughably red. Fire-engine red, and combed in an unprofessional pompadour. But, he was nice enough to tell Link, "You're not in trouble."

_"__Yet."_ Detective Sheikston corrected him.

"We aren't even on duty."

"We are _always_ on duty."

The man rolled his eyes and shook his head, but grinned with just a hint of affection, "_I'm_ not on duty."

She huffed, snapped the leather wallet holding her id and badge closed. She leaned back, tucked it away in coat pocket, but did not roll down the window anymore. "Are you him?" she demanded in a clipping, irritated voice. Link glanced to the driver. He got the impression he was the one she was bothered by, not Link. When he took too long to respond, she made a little noise of frustration and then held up the weathered wanted poster, holding it, unfolded, between two fingers, dangling it over the shiny, heavily tinted window. "Did you deliver this to Gustav Hylsen?"

He had forgotten how to speak, "Uh—" Link scooted closer, wrapped the blanket tighter around himself, "I thought—her father. I thought—"

She drew it back, quickly. He heard he paper folding again, she informed him, "Are you aware that the Hylsen case was closed four days ago after Gustav was found dead in his home?"

"N-no. I did not know." Link answered.

What was she going to do? Kill him here? What about Beedle? What about Marin and Aryll? She thought _he_ was the culprit, and he could just stammer, flounder around in a sea of sharp, cutting accusations. This was a stupid way to die.

"And did you know that all of these," she waved the folded flier by the gap in the window, "Were taken down in a thorough sweep through the city?"

His mouth had turned to sand, "... No."

"So—how did _you_ come to have it?"

"I—I just found it." Link answered. His head began to spin and he felt his heart pounding. He swallowed-there was nothing to swallow. "It was in a bus stop. They must have missed it. It was hidden. It was a freak chance. I swear."

"Are you sure?" her voice was biting, "Because it seems to me that slipping notes, waiting a week to bring forth information, and demanding a meeting in an unmonitored location, are all things that the kidnapper would do."

Link knew how strange it looked. She was right. He could not even begin to defend himself. Detective Sheikston swung the door open, and stepped out, drawing herself up to her full, impressive height. Link shrunk back. Her nose was long, narrow, and flat, fanning out over her thin, wide lips. Her skin was a little sun-kissed, dark for a blonde. She wore a sharply-tailored navy vest and dress slacks under a long, mustard-colored coat. Cinched tight around her thin neck was a red tie, held in place with a gold and red-enamel pin. It was the Sheikah symbol, obviously a proud nod to her ancestral heritage. No one wore a Sheikah's symbol because it was trendy.

Link felt himself shaking, "I—"

She folded her arms, looked down her nose at him. She had this way of growing when she spoke, towering over him. "Where is Zelda Hylsen?"

"I last saw her in Eldin." Link said abruptly, "About a twenty minute walk from here, at a bus stop. Less than a week ago. Faroresday."

Detective Sheikston stopped. What ever magic had elevated her head above him ceased, and she returned to her normal, though still very tall, form. "What?" She unfolded the paper, double checked the date, "She was last seen last Gildenday—she went missing a full week ago, and you mean to tell me you saw her two days after that?"

"Yes."

The Detective took a step back, leaned against the car, and ran the paper through her fingers, thinking. Then she straightened up, got back in and slammed the door behind her. She rolled the window up so she could speak in private with her partner. The car reversed, out of earshot. Link glanced towards Beedle at his barbecue, he still had his headphones in, but he had switched the radio off. He had been listening in. Link watched the car, checked his watch. He had an hour or so before Blake showed up, but knowing Blake, he would show up early. Detective Sheikston and her partner spoke for a long, long time, long enough for the sun to disappear completely and the scrapyard lights to switch on, before they both climbed out of the car. The woman made a line for him. Her partner ambled along, looked towards the Epona under the cloth, and took his time. When she had crossed the dirt driveway to Link, sitting on the trailer, she ordered him to tell her, "Which bus stop?"

"The one by Romani."

She nodded pulled her lip through her teeth, thinking deeply, "I see." then she took out a notepad, jotted that down, "What else did she do?" she turned her eyes to Link again, staring down her nose at him, "What did she seem like? What did she say?"

"She seemed insane." Link answered, "She kept repeating, over and over again, 'I'm sorry' but she never said for what. She took hold of my hand, looked at the back and acted like there was something there to see." Link held up his hand pulled up the leather glove, to show the detective that no, there was nothing to see. She stopped writing mid-word, her eyes narrowed, fixed on it, then went back to his face for half a second before she focused on her notes again. Behind her, she saw her partner look around and straighten his pompadour. "And she stopped saying she was sorry long enough to tell me don't drink the water."

He turned, "What?"

He headed straight for Link, coming to a halt at the back of the trailer. With Detective Sheikston on his left, and her partner at the back to the trailer, he was pinned in. He glanced up at the wall of scrap metal on his right. He could climb it, maybe, but they would easily catch him. He looked back, and wished he could bring himself to meet the man's hazel eyes, instead of focusing on his loud hair.

"She knew the water was poisoned." he answered, "I though it was just a joke until I got home and found out my sister was sick. I don't know how she knew, but she did. I thought maybe her father could give me some answers." He turned to the woman, "Perhaps he might have."

When he mentioned Gustav Hyslen, the Detective's eyebrow jumped, just a moment, like she came to some kind of small epiphany, or at the very least, she agreed. "Is there anything else?"

"One thing." Link replied, "She had a flash drive, and I think she was trying to hide it. It was hidden by a scarf at first, but she took it off and loaned it to me. The scarf, a blue one. That was when I saw it. Before she ran away, she hid it, the flash drive, in her coat."

"Same day the water was poisoned?" her partner asked.

"Same day." he nodded.

"I wasn't expecting that." he crossed his arms, glanced back to the Epona, then to Beedle standing over he barbecue. He was a burly fellow. Taller than the detective, if it was to be believed. He extended his hand to Link. Link reached out from under the blanket and took it. He had a good, firm handshake, "Officer Groose Aracelli—and we never caught your name."

"Link Smith."

He probably should have lied.

They leaned back a bit, gave him a side-eye, then looked to each other. Their expressions were far from unreadable. Impa thoughtfully frowned, glanced off into the distance above the chain link fence. Link twisted around to look. He just saw the top of Bessie and a little crown of razor wire, then the darkness of the sky lined with a little lip of electric light. That way was the middle of town. She could be thinking about anything. He turned back. She looked unhappy and underwhelmed. Officer Aracelli, on the other hand, looked thrilled. When she glanced at him, his eyebrows jumped, once, twice, and he glanced down to Link. She shook her head, still frowning, this time, genuinely upset, lips puffing out. Groose nodded earnestly. She sighed, turned her penetrating stare back to Link, "How old are you? Fifteen?"

Why did everyone think he was so _young_. He was not that skinny, and he was not that short, either. "Seventeen."

"How many months?"

"Um—" Link counted backwards. It was Ruto now, so... "Ten."

"Coincidence!" Detective Sheikston spoke first.

"Fate!"

"If it was him he would have followed her."

"Unless she's not the right Zelda."

"She's _got_ to be right Zelda." She insisted, "Leaving the city? Acting suspicious? On the day of the accident, no less? Gustav Hylsen's body was found by the Twinrova themselves—and the autopsy was handled entirely by Ganondorf's personel. It's a coverup if I ever saw one. She's the right Zelda." she looked away from Officer Aracelli and to Link when she said this, frowning, judging him, the bright light above her head made her sharp features appear sharper. Link scooted back, out of arm's reach. "He did not follow. He's not the right Link. Coincidence. Or he's working for Ganondorf and we need to leave. Now."

"Zelda knew about the accident before anyone else. Proves it's not an accident. Stop calling it an accident."

"That's your investigation, not mine." Detective Sheikston said. She stopped being scary and started being a little more animated, gesturing with her hands as she spoke. "More coincidence."

"Fate."

"Coincidence!" she insisted, eyes growing wide, shaking her head a little and leaning forward briefly, she crossed her arms, gestured with her pen, "If it was fate—he would have known her before, and if he did, we would have interviewed him earlier. Zelda's friends wasted no time telling us everything they thought would help—and you remember what wasn't on the list? A junkyard dog named Link."

Link took offense at that, but did not bother saying anything about it.

"Or anyone named Link! She had a strong aversion to _any_ boy named Link. What makes this one any different?"

"Well you would to, if they felt you were obligated to date them. That's not the point." Officer Aracelli was determined to pin him, "What is your birthday, exactly?"

"Seventeenth of Sariasmon."

"Zelda's Birthday." he turned back to the Detective, "And before you say he knew it already, or he's lying—that's not on the wanted poster. Fate."

Detective Sheikston pursed her lips, crossed her arms and drummed her fingers on her forearm. She gave Link a look of pure, crystallized malice. He shrunk back again, and for just a moment, he was not exactly worried about _Ganondorf_ killing him. She shook her head and insisted, "He's not the one."

"Why not?"

She replied, as if it was all the proof he needed, "I don't like him."

Groose grinned, a little amused, a little frustrated, and shook his head, "I think the fact that you're named Impa, got an obsession with finding Zelda, and dislike the first Link with any valuable information you've encountered in this investigation proves even more that he's the one."

She tilted her head, her face went from its normal tan to a very pissed-off red. She did not say anything.

Officer Aracelli went back to interviewing him, "And you were born in Cassiopia Memorial Hospice, of course?"

"Yes."

"Everyone is born there." Impa huffed, "That means nothing!"

"Where did you go to school?"

Neither one of them was accusing him of anything other than incompetence at this point, so he obliged, "Sun Fish Elementary in Koholint. Saria Middle school in Kakariko. Dropped out of High School."

Detective Sheikston was determined to not have him pinned, "Zelda attended a private school her entire life. They never would have seen each other."

Groose insisted, "I think we'll find something more than just a freak chance in a bus stop."

"But now the investigation's closed, so we can't get a warrant—" she counted on her fingers, "We can't search school records, can't look at security footage—"

"I'm sure Rauru Private Academy would love to help us out." His eyes flicked to Link briefly, daring him to investigate himself. Link added it to the list of things he needed to do. Detective Sheikston saw the small exchange, too, she frowned, but did not say anything. Officer Aracelli continued talking, "Zelda was their best student, and just because the investigation was closed does not mean she stopped being missed. We'll look over their records, I'm sure they'll let us, and ask Link about anything we think might be helpful."

"So what if we do? I don't want anyone sniffing around _us_—investigating two kids, same birthday, named Link and Zelda, would put us on Ganondorf's radar immediately, if we aren't there already." she reached into her back pocket, took out her wallet, and removed a card, tapped it against the back of her hand, thinking deeply, "And the security footage? How do we know he's not lying about everything?"

"Well, we'll just have to trust him—or find a friend somewhere that will let us check the footage without a warrant. Kakariko's not that big—and I don't see a car. Romani isn't far, probably doesn't have one. He won't be hard to find again."

Impa opened her mouth to say something, closed her mouth again, look up, to the left, thinking, replaying part of the conversation in her head. She had assumed he was homeless. It was nice of Groose to realize he was not. The detective turned the card over between her fingers, heaved a sigh and shrugged, looking down at it, "Right. Thank you. You've given us a new lead—it is a shame we may not be able to use it." then after a pause, she added, "I'm just—very invested in this case."

Link dared to ask, "Why?"

She handed him the card, Link looked at it. Her name, her home address, two phone numbers and an e-mail. She did not answer his question. She turned to Officer Aracelli and nodded briskly, then she climbed back into his squat car. He shrugged, gave Link a smile, a handshake, and another card. "Keep an eye out—And stay out of trouble."

"Yes. Of course."

And then they left.

Link watched them go, backing up in the cramped space, and barely missing taking off a side-mirror on the gates, and, strangely, leaving him with more questions than before. He looked at his watch—it was barely seven. He glanced at Beedle, wondered what he thought about all of this. He stood there, stopped over his grill, watching the car drive away out of the corner of his eye. When they were gone, he looked at Link, gestured him over. Link climbed off the trailer and as he walked, he awkwardly put their cards in his wallet next to Blake's phone number, the blanket held under his chin.

Beedle indicated a collapsible, outdoor chair he could sit on, with a mesh cup holder. Link sat down, adjusted the blanket around himself.

"That really true?" he asked, "What you said? You saw her?"

"Yeah. It is."

Beedle mulled over that for a while.

"You want a beer?"

"No." Link pulled back, wrinkled his nose, "I'm a kid!"

Beedle glanced up, did a double take, like he had forgotten "Oh. Right. Sorry."

Link looked down at the barbecue. He had never seen food cooked on an outdoor grill before. He had some hazy memories. The grates all seemed hard to clean, so he had never understood the point. Beetle had his burgers right on the bars, with little aluminum packets of vegetables cooking on the other side. He nudged them with a metal spatula. Burning coal, beef—for once, the smell did not disgust him. That was strange. This seemed familiar. Link felt a little hint of deja vu as he leaned forward to feel a bit more of the heat from the coals on his face. It did not travel very far. He glanced away from the glowing coals, to Beedle, and asked, "I can understand why they're curious—but why are you?"

"Oh." he grumbled, poked at a burger, deemed it done, and took both of them off the grill, storing them, pre-cooked, to peck at through the week, "You know..."

"No, Beedle, I don't." Link shook his head, "She was around here, and he was right, Romani isn't that far. Did she come by here, too?"

Beedle was silent. He put two more burgers on the grill, they hissed and fizzled dramatically, then he said, "Yeah. She did."

"What did she do? Why did she come here?"

"Told me where she was headed, bring some supplies. Told me to check up on her when I could." he added, with a glance to Link, "Told me not to tell anyone where she went."

"And where did she go?"

"Not telling." he replied. Link twitched in frustration, eyes averting to the side, snapping his fingers under the blanket. He knew Beedle would have been to clever to fall for that so easily. Still—it had been worth a try.

At least he could find something about Zelda, "But why you? How does she know you?"

Beedle did not answer directly. At first Link wondered if he would answer at all. He poked and prodded at his cooking, focused intently on it, and completely ignored Link. Link leaned back in the chair, listened to the sound of the coals burning, the distant traffic, the electric light over head clicking and buzzing, and a moth fluttering against it. While he waited, he took the bandanna from his back pocket, let the blanket fall off of his shoulders while he tied it behind his head, put up his hood, so he would be ready to go at the drop of a hat. He had hidden the boomerang in the pocket of his hoodie. It stuck out a little bit. Link checked his watch. Blake was ten minutes late. Guess he had been too drunk to remember. Well—what now? Start walking home? It was only ten minutes—he would give him a few more.

Beedle's voice interrupted him, "You ever hear the story of how I got this place?"

No. No Link had not heard it—and he still did not really want to hear it. He was fairly certain no one really knew. Anyone who did was probably as old as Beedle was, or dead, or senile. "No. I haven't." Link replied.

"Well—It used to belong to this nice couple, Arn and Medilia—"

A garish, glimmering, fuchsia car skidded to a halt, back wheels drifting, in front of them. Beedle made a loud, disgusted noise of protest and slammed the lid down on his barbecue before any dust could be kicked into his burgers. Link covered his face with his arm, and was grateful for the bandanna. When the car stopped, he batted a could of dust out of his eyes, and looked it over. It looked like something a teenage girl would be driving—certainly not something he expected to see skidding to a halt in Beedle's scrapyard. Glittering, kind of garish. He glanced at Beedle. He was stunned, worried, Link would go so far as to say horrified.

The windows were mirrored, and in the darkness, Link could not see inside. But it was only Blake. He kicked the door open, poked his head out."Come on, I'm pretty sure the owner of this car has called the cops. Get in quick."

* * *

Not quite the buddy-cop AU I think Skyward Sword Impa and Groose deserve. Impa would be the old, no nonsense, tight-laced cop that's two days away from retirement, and Groose is the idealistic rookie... that fucks up, pulls her into a turfwar/conspiracy/coverup/undercover...thing? And makes her unable to retire.

This, obviously, isn't that.


	11. Chapter 11

Interlinking

(Disclaimed.)

Wanted to do a PoV chapter for Blake before it all goes to shit in chapter thirteen.

Didn't work right, so Blake just explains the events of said chapter, and Blake'll get his day in the limelight later.

* * *

Chapter eleven:

Blake started driving away when Link was half way in, and Beedle started moving to stop them, going to stand in front of the gate. This was clearly _not_ his car. The Armos had suited him, just the right amount of mess for his personality—this did not. It was spotless. Impeccable. Suspicious. Everything was in its place. The white leather seats were so soft Link would swear they were stuffed with feathers. The inside smelled so familiar—and the heater worked. Link held his hands against the vents, felt the blood rush back to his fingertips with a sharp pins-and-needles tingle. "Who's car is this?"

"Dunno. Just jacked one from the mall." Blake laughed. "The keys were inside and everything."

"This is probably some teenager's—"

"Freaking _hell_, Beedle!" Blake cut him off. He opened the car door again, poked his head out, "What?"

The old man stalked to the driver's side, grabbed him by the flak jacket, and jerked him out, "Where did you get this car?"

"Fifth floor parking lot of the mall." Blake answered. He brushed him off, "Don't worry. I'll abandon it in a safe place, where people will see if it gets stolen again, and call in an anonymous tip telling the police where it is. She'll get it back. And I'll get Link home before midnight—I promise."

"Don't call the police." Beedle shook his head, "Leave it, fine. But don't call the police."

"Why not?"

He looked at Link, told him firmly, "Make sure he doesn't call the police."

Link nodded. He felt a little awkward. He though Blake was right. It would be better to call the police, "Sure thing."

Then the old man let him go, went back to his barbecue. Blake got back into the car. He slammed the door, rubbed his shoulder. He looked at Link from the corner of his eye. It was his turn to ask, "Who's car _is_ this?"

"I don't know." Link replied, "Just drive—and you had better do what he says. Don't call in a tip."

Blake drove through the gates a little more carefully than he had entered them, "Fine. I won't call. But I will try to get you home before midnight." Then he winked at him. His eyes were already painted up like a raccoon. "Open the glove box."

Link did not want to obey, but he did anyway. There were some receipts, some make up, a little pink, half-empty bottle of perfume—though at this point, it was pretty obvious it was a girl's car—and a cell phone. It was prepaid, small, unassuming, probably not stolen. It folded up and fit easily into his back pocket. There was also a disposable pictobox, and two battery-powered radios. They looked so out of place, they must be what Blake wanted him to see.

"Happy early or late Birthday!"

"How can you manage to be so nice and so _aweful_ at the same time?"

Blake smiled and shrugged, "It's only to get us there." he said, "I can't do a job like this in my _own_ car."

He was right. Link put the phone in his back picket, clipped his radio to the waist band of his jeans, and put the disposable pictobox in the large pocket of his hoodie. He went back to poking around in the glove box, the compartments in the doors, under the seats, looking for any kind of clue as to who's car it might be, "You're still a jerk."

"Don't tell your sister!"

"Sure, I won't tell _Aryll._"

"Who's a jerk _now?" _Blake laughed, "And what are you fidgeting for, are you trying to look suspicious?"

Blake stopped at a red light. It was good that the windows of this car were tinted, too. Otherwise, no power on earth, not magic, destiny, or divine intervention, could make them look _not_ suspicious. Two guys, driving a clearly feminine car? Link considered himself fairly progressive, and under normal circumstances, it would be a blip on the radar, just people being people, but nothing unheard of. Two guys clearly about to commit some sort of _crime_ in a girl's car? Too silly not to notice.

"How did she _drive_ in this thing?" Blake shook his head, "Is this what it's like to be color blind?"

The rose-tint of the windows turned the green and yellow of the lights into an unattractive brown. "I don't know." Link shrugged. He stopped fidgeting. "Just get us there."

"Oh!" he fished in his pocket again, took out a cell phone, a sleek, advanced, black thing, "Navi—find Gas Stations in on Mikau street."

There was a pause. Blake stopped at a red light and scrolled through some options before selecting one and handing the phone to Link, "We're following the orange line."

"Okay."

Link gave him a few directions, and they left Eldin, past the giant industrial complex, where Link turned his head for a second to see a few Gorons, lumbering around, chatting, watching their car as it passed. A couple waved, some just watched. Clouds still trailed up from the smoke stacks, lit up by the lights over the stock yard below, filled with metal beams, pipes, wooden crates filled with glass bottles. Link barely saw half of that from over the high brick wall. They went to to Lanayru, next—and it had hardly changed. Lanayru always blurred together for him. He rarely did come to this part of town.

Everyone was wearing coats. He thought about Marin again, cooped up at home and probably wondering where he was. He was in for an ear-full when he got back. Maybe she would be too cold to be upset. He propped his elbow up below the window, rested his cheek on his hand. What was it about this car that smelled so familiar? It had the same smell of fresh, real leather the Epona had—maybe it was just air freshener? He looked at the rear-view mirror. There was nothing there. He noticed they were coming up on a turn and told Blake as much.

"No—no that's fine. You don't have to tell me. I come through here all the time. I live here."

"Were you late because you got lost?"

There was a pause.

"Yes."

Link snorted.

They came at the Zora's Quarter from a less direct route, going though the smaller section of Labrynna and ditching the car, just like he had promised, in a gas station on Mikau Street, taking everything of Blake's out. He brought a backpack again, something Link had not really been able to do. He could not take the gun to work. Even taking the knife had been a risk. He had that and the boomerang. That was it.

Blake had a knife, a taser, and a small canister of pepper spray in hard to open plastic packing. He had to stab it out with his knife. He also had a lighter, a flash light, a disposable pictobox of his own—that was just in the smallest pocket of his bag. Link tugged at his gloves, waiting, while Blake tugged his hat down, switching it from a knitted cap with a rolled brim to a ski-mask. "Let's go." he took the phone from Link, put in his pocket, "We take that street. Toto. Goes right to the water's edge. We sneak along there to the Water Commission. Easy as pie."

Link followed him along Toto Street. So far, the Zora's Quarter looked just like any other section of the city—and strangely devoid of Zoras, "Are we still in Labrynna here?"

"Very edge, yeah." he said.

"I can't see the Zora's Quarter."

"That way." Blake pointed in the darkness. Link followed his finger and saw a back of a wooden house, the lights were on, the curtains drawn. He saw the flickering light of a television and heard the family inside laughing. The street they were on was poorly lit, he could hardly see Blake. There were no dogs. Link wondered why, then he saw what looked like a small dragon, or perhaps a large lizard, in he back yard, sleeping soundly, "You'll know it when you see it. Guess you've never been there?"

Link had, back when his parents were alive. Never in depth. Never at night. It had always seemed so sleepy during the day, but he always heard that it really came alive at night. They just passed through it on their way to the lake side, and those excursions usually ended with in a few hours or days, well out of sight of the Zora's Quarter. So, if anyone asked Link what he thought of it, he would just say the buildings seemed fairly tall, fairly normal. It was just like any other part of the city—but the streets were water and the cars were gondolas meant mainly for non-Zoras. "Have you?"

"Loads of times. They're gearing up for the Festival of Melodies right now, very crowded, but not a lot going on right now. We should avoid it, if we can."

Festival of Melodies. Link quickened his pace—did not really want to think about celebrating anything right at the moment. Besides, Blake had that _leading-up-to-something _tone in his voice again. What ever he was getting at, it could wait.

"By they way," Blake was going to say it anyway, "My family has a cook out on the East side of the Lake every year around during." his voice was a little unsure, "It's next Vitasday—you want to come?"

"When you say that, you mean _do you want to bring Marin,_ right?"

He could not see, because of the mask, but everything else about Blake's body language indicated he was grinning broadly as he walked. "Well if she has some sort of issue with free food, fire works, and music, I guess she doesn't _have_ to."

Why the hell not? Maybe he would get wasted and ruin his chances once and for all.

"I mean," he settled down, came abreast with Link and walked with in-step with him. Link could see light dancing on water, a couple of boats bobbing out in the distance, the two walked down to the water's edge. It got dark quickly afterwards, not that they were away from the streets and house-lit windows. Blake took out his flashlight. Link's was a small thing that hooked onto his keyring. He did not bother getting it out. Blake's was just fine. "I know my dad's a bit loud and my sister's a little abrasive—but I promise they aren't like me. They're nice, law-abiding people and they aren't heavy drinkers."

Link narrowed his eyes. He was not sure if Blake though Link had an issue with drinking, or if he some how found out Marin _did._ Link had been sure to not let it slip once—but considering Blake's habit of snooping, perhaps he had. He had ample opportunity, too, considering he was a hospital volunteer, and Aryll was just laying around with nothing better to do than talk. Had he gone back and grilled her? What had he asked? What had she said? Had she told Blake Marin wasn't a blood relative? "Sure." He finally answered, "If she feels like it. But Aryll should be out of the hospital by then—she might want to take it easy, and Marin won't want to leave her at home alone."

Blake did not sound any less enthusiastic, "If Aryll wants to come, let her. That'll just make Marin a little less reluctant."

Link narrowed his eyes a little more, "Did you go see her recently?"

It was Blake's turn to walk quickly ahead like he did not want to talk about something.

"Blake, answer the question."

"Well," he offered nervously, "I went to go see Aryll."

"Implying you wanted to see Marin."

"Yes. And I did. I said we were friends, so she asked how I knew you. We talked a little bit—I said you and I met the night Aryll got poisoned and she accused _me_ of giving you alcohol. I figured, at the time, she was just being a sister, and besides, it was not true. So, if she ever asks, you were given some strong liquor you could not identify by an old man in a black pickup truck, and I helped you limp away and sober up a little bit."

"Smooth." That sounded like something he would try to hide from Marin, too.

"Thank you." he bowed, a little cheeky, "And I thought everything was going smoothly—I stayed well away from the topic of her employment while Aryll was in the room. I'm so glad you warned me. She said she had to go do laundry, I offered her a ride, took her to the laundromat..." he trailed off. "Then, just before I left to come get you, I offered to help her get a job at Daphnes' bar because he owner owes me a favor and I had damn well collect. And I know drunk men give better tips—but she got upset with me and refused to say another word to me. Why?"

"Well—her Dad's an alcoholic, so..."

"I'm an ass."

"Yeah."

Then he realized something, stopped in his tracks, "Wait—_her_ Dad?"

Shit. Link fumbled for an answer, "Um, yes—She's not—" He should tell him the truth now—maybe it would make a difference. But, at the same time, part of Link really _liked_ watching Blake make an ass of himself, so he lied again, hoping Aryll had not told him the truth already. "We're half siblings."

"But you said you had no parents."

"Marin's the oldest. We share a mother. Her biological dad is still around. He's just drunk and useless."

"Aaaand what's _his_ name?"

"I'm not making that mistake again."

Blake laughed, "Fair enough." He turned his head, pointed, "I think we're far enough away now that the main part of the Zora's Quarter looks sufficiently impressive."

Link turned.

It was sufficiently impressive. The most exotic thing Link had really been exposed to was the tightly-knit neighborhoods of the Gorons in Eldin. They kept to themselves, the city mines outside of town, and their boiling hot factories. Their stone houses and their work were two completely separate spheres. The Zoras, on the other hand, were artists—and it showed. Their night life left the Gorons in the dust. Their part of town quickly expanded when the river that fed Lake Hylia was been, and other rivers were diverted to join it, filling it with so much water it had to be artificially deepened and the excess had to be dammed up out side of town before it came through the water treatment plant and went to the city, while the other half went to the lake, which had grown so big and out of control that the human population was displaced. The Zora had quickly stepped in, tore out the streets, and fixed up the foundations. In was a little community just sitting there, taking up a quarter of the lake, and a little of the lip around it. Though technically, the buildings above where also shops, hotels, and restaurants, for people that just wanted to spend the night away from their house in another, not-novel part of the city, and most of the Zoras lived under the water, in a vast, complex series of tunnels and pockets of air that connected to the city above through vents and filters.

But it was the look of it that was really impressive. The light. Every inch of it was lit up from lights half-under the water, which reflected it back up, made it dance over the old, stone walls.

"Get a move on!" Blake said, laughing, "Home by midnight, remember?"

"What did you tell Marin we were doing?"

"Just chilling."

"Marin would never believe that."

"She didn't. What do you want to tell her?"

"I don't know. I couldn't think of anything. You're not in college—so I can't say that. I would have said studying for a test, but I guess you dropped out of school—and I don't know if you've taken any kind of alternate certification, so if I said anything about it, she might have known it was a lie and then we'd both be in trouble."

"No. I haven't."

"Well, I can say I'm helping you study for that next time. We can say the library's better in Lanayru. It's not, really, but we can say it is. I can pretend I don't want to tell her because it's supposed to be a surprise. She'll probably be so happy she'll forget about everything else."

It was true. She probably would—so that was a lie he did not feel bad telling at all.

"Sure. Let's do it. I can't think of a better story and we've got plenty of reason to. I guess she already knows you're helping Aryll with math. I'm..._ not_ very good at math either."

The lake side stopped being a raised, earthy bluff and sloped downwards, becoming slick, wet rocks that shifted underfoot quickly. When they tried to shy a little to their right to avoid it, they bumped into a fence, just out of the water's reach, supported on a concrete ledge. The lake side took a sharp right, too, coming very close to that ledge, and forcing them to press their backs against the fence and slide precariously along the slippery rocks for a few yards. Someone must have heard them scraping by at one point, because they both slipped at least once, banging their head back against the fence. Once, a porch light came on, but no one discovered them.

Eventually, the path widened out again, and by that time, Link could see their destination. It was a solid structure, surrounded by a chain link fence topped with curling wire. Link could only see that in the little light they had, but he knew enough to assume it was woven with barbs or razors. Brute force was not going to get them in. The walls themselves looked to be concrete, no windows until the second floor—and that was just what was before the secondary dam. The main plant was wedged between the primary and secondary walls.

Link could hear water roaring through turbines after a few steps. After a few more, it became deafening. The primary dam was for power. The water raced through turbines, connecting to generators, that provided power for the Zora's Quarter, and the better part of Lanayru. Probably Labrynna, too. It was pretty small.

Blake muttered something.

"What?" Link asked.

Blake turned to him, "What?"

"I asked what you said."

"Oh!" He laughed, "Shit—that _is_ really loud."

Through his voice was normal—it sounded like a faint whisper above the roar, now that they were standing at the base of the fence. "I don't know how these people can sleep through it."

"Maybe you just get use to it." Blake shrugged, "It's not like a plane or anything. It's not random. I'd imagine it would get pretty spooked if it stopped, though."

"Well then let's try to not stop it."

"Good plan. Lovely. That's why I have you around, idea man."

"How do we get in?" Link asked.

"Hey, your heist, _I__dea Man_." Blake held up his hands, "Your investigation. Your call."

"Well, what would _you_ do?"

"We're looking for evidence—I'm untraceable. We're looking for something an idiot would try." He was probably grinning again, "So what would _you_ do?"

A cut in the fence would be evidence of some kind of crime. Link scanned the immediate area for freshly dug or covered holes, cuts in the fence, "I'd want to find a cut in the fence, at least."

"Right." Blake replied, "You want to split up or stay together?"

"I say stay together. This place is so big we'd be out of range. If one of us met with any trouble out here, the other one wouldn't know."

"Well, that would work—the cut in the fence, I mean," he pointed to the water's surface with his flashlight, "If it would not be relatively easy to swim under."

"It's too cold for that."

"I'm not saying its smart. We're hoping our saboteur is a moron, remember?"

Link thought, for a second, that a Zora could easily swim under—they would not be bothered by wet clothes or the cold. However—why would a Zora poison the water? They needed it just as much as everyone else did, if not more. Blake set his back pack down and unzipped it, "We won't find a cut, anyway. The fence has been repaired by now, surely." he had a point. Link shined his flash light down, helping him see what he was looking for. A clearly worn-down, demure carpet square—the kind that took him back to his days in elementary school, sitting on one on the tile gym floor, learning to keep still. Now, he was learning a different lesson; "Start carrying on of these."

"A carpet sample?"

"Eeyup."

He handed the back pack to Link. He was expecting it to be much lighter. He nearly caved under its weight, but he did not bother asking what all he had it in. He put it on as Blake threw the carpet sample over his shoulder, hooked his fingers through the wire, and climbed up the fence. It rattled a little, shook, but did not fall over. Link barely heard it above the roar of the water anyway. When he got up, he lay the carpet sample over the curled wire, slipped over, and down again, "Your turn. You think you got it?"

"Sure."

Not really, no, but it was worth a try. Blake made it look so easy.

"Grab it before you come down!" Blake hissed to him over the roar of the water. Link took a corner and yanked it off, tossed it down to Blake. He put it away in his back pack, took it from Link's shoulders, and slipped it on again."

"We're not going to find an open door." He scanned the windows quickly with the light, "Even if we did, we'd never be able to climb up."

"I have a boomerang that doubles as a grappling hook."

"Get out of town!"

Link took it out, unwound the cord, "Dunno if this would hold us, though. It's a little old."

"Only one way to find out." Blake scanned along the top of the building, looking for anything he could latch onto. Link looked, too. Something narrow. Preferably bolted down. A satellite dish. A spire meant purely for intimidation.

"Surveillance tower!" Blake pointed, "Try it out."

"You want climb up there? That will get us into the roof, not inside. They're no point in getting our faces right next to the thing we should be avoiding.

He snickered, "You're not going to climb in through the vents?"

"No. Blake. I'm not going to try to sneak in through the vents. Even I know they're too narrow."

"If there's electronics up there, there's probably a maintenance door. Besides, our faces are mostly covered. Try it. If anything we'll just delete the footage."

Link unwound the blue cord all the way. It was probably long enough. He did not know the proper distance up, but he wrapped the excess around his arm, leaving about thirty five feet free, and fifteen feet around his arm. It was longer than he had first thought. It then occurred to him that he had never once thrown a boomerang in his life. Rather than disappoint Blake, he angled it up, tossed it, and watched, a little amazed with himself, as it spiraled up, hooked around the short surveillance tower, and latched on tight.

Blake whistled, "Good job. You go first."

"Why me?"

"Your rope. Also, you're like five feet tall. If I land on you I'd break your back. If you land on me you'll probably benefit from it somehow."

Under the bandanna, Link flushed.

He was five seven. Blake knew that. Blake was only about six two, tops. Link refused to believe it was possible to be taller than that. He huffed, handed him the excess coil of rope, and climbed up the wall to the roof. Blake flowed. There was the door, just like he had said. He set his bag down, took out a small, narrow case, set it down by the door, and flipped it open. Inside was a complete set of locksmith's tools. Link eyed them while he wrapped the cord around the boomerang. He just had a small set of picks—Blake's set had the same picks his did, a diamond pick, a rake, and hooked pick. He had several tension wrenches, too, a set of tweezers, and several other things Link did not recognize.

"Give me some light, would you?"

What _exactly_ did he study in college?

"You take a locksmith class?"

"They don't teach locksmith classes." Blake replied, "How much do you know about lock-picking?"

"Not much." Link knelt down beside him, "Really, I just jiggle it around until something works."

Blake giggled, "You must be great in bed—but, here, if you're lazy, I've got a technique you might like."

He set down the two tools in his hand, put them in their proper place, and picked up another two, a flat, bent tension wrench, and a lock pick that looked a bit more like an actual key than his other tools. Its edge was jagged like teeth, "Takes a couple of tries, though, a lot of luck. So you take this—this tension wrench, and hopefully it will fit, if not you just get one that does."

He set it down and picked up a better-fitting one, slipping the shorter arm in to the lock and hooking his fingers over the longer arm, then he stuck the toothed-pick into the lock, all the way in the back, applied a little pressure to the wrench, pulled the pick back—and nothing happened. He stood back, before Link could say anything, "Give it a try—you've got more luck than skill, probably."

Link set down the boomerang and did exactly what Blake had done. The lock clicked open in half a second. Blake gave his shoulder a little shake, "Lucky boy. Get yourself a set of those tension wrenches and one of those—think that's called a raking pick? I've forgotten." Link put the tools away and handed Blake the kit. He slipped it inside his back pack while Link shut the door as quietly as he could behind them. They went down the stairway, which lead to another door. This one was not locked. It lead to a hallway lined with offices. Blake shined his flashlight both ways.

"Okay—now what, Idea Man?"

The entire building rumbled. No one would hear them—but they would not hear any security guard approaching.

"Well—if it came from the top, I guess there'd be a memo or something. A company wide email."

"You feel like checking every computer?"

"No. I'm hoping someone got lazy near the end of the clean up process and left a bottle of something in a trash can that never gets cleaned. Or something. Electronics aren't my thing. They're yours. Tell me what to look for if we're going to the computer."

"You've got a long way to go." Blake sighed, "But—it all depends on if the computers are communicating through a business network, or the same internet everyone else in town uses. Either way, might as well go for the gold. Let's find the main office. Hacking into the boss's computer can't hurt."

"Can you do that?"

"Course I can. Just have to find it."

What _did_ he go to school for?

"I'm heading that way." he pointed with his flashlight, "You head that way." he pointed the other way, picked up his radio and added, "You call me if you find anything that looks like management."

"Right." Link took out his own flashlight, headed down the opposite end of the hallway. There were not many doors in this part. Not many officials here, probably. There were a few heads of things, electric engineering, distribution, chemical engineering.

Chemical? Link focused his light back on the sign. If anyone had a hand in poison—it would be him. He took out the radio, "Blake, you find management?"

There was a pause, static, then, "Yeah. I'm working on the door."

"I found head of chemical engineering. Guessing that's a co manager or... something."

"Yes. That's a very good guess. Can you get in?"

"Yes."

Link put the radio back on his waist band, took out the lock picks, strapped, like the flashlight, to his keyring. Mostly blind, he jiggled the picks around until the tumblers found their place by some combination of skill and divine intervention and the door swung open. Link stood up, closed the door, but did not bother turning on the lights. A guard might pass by. He did not know the first thing about office filing. It would help, just a little bit, if he knew what he was looking for, too. Something more than a week old—but in order to avoid suspicion, it could be months old. There were some printed memos. This or that was to be done—someone promoted, someone fired, nothing about willing poisoning hundreds, let alone an ample reason. He found another drawer in the black metal desk filled with sheets of perforated carbon paper. Shipping invoices?

He sat down in the chair and looked at one.

Chlorine dioxide. Hypochlorite. Copper sulphate. Benzalkonium chloride. Polydimethylsiloxane. He went through the list, set it down, looked at the next one. The names were the same, the numbers were basically the same. He though he had stumbled upon something when he saw Hydrogen peroxide on the list—he thought that was pretty toxic—but it was on every invoice—maybe it had a use here? Perhaps diluted enough it was not deadly? But the purpose of water treatment to take chemicals _out _of water, right? Maybe it just sounded deadly? Of course, to Link they _all_ sounded deadly.

Link scanned the invoice. If this was going to be covered up anyway, the chemical used probably came under the table, and no one would be stupid enough to put in on an invoice. He was wasting his time. He put the papers back in the order he found them. The invoices were from Mertan Chemical and Mineral. One more place to look. At least Link knew where that was. It was in Eldin, located in the Harkinian industrial complex, with Darumani Metal Works. Romani even had a main office there. It was where they made their containers. It would be harder to break into, considering the wall around it was fifteen feet high, two feet thick, and solid brick. He would have to get through the front door, somehow.

He picked up the radio, "Blake?"

"Yes?"

"How are you doing on your side?"

He heard a printer running, "Good." Blake replied, "I've found a couple of suspicious emails. He ordered security footage be purged recently. I'm sure their security team knows their stuff, but I'm going down to check soon and make sure soon—I need to anyway. You?"

"No." Link replied. He poked around, considered something, and thumbed through the invoices again, "I—might have. The date. The invoices I'm looking at come in once a week. Gildenday. Except for the Gildenday just before everything fell to shit. That one's gone."

"Looking for that is pointless. It's been shredded by now."

Link closed the drawer again softly, "Weird we haven't seen any security."

"They've got one night watchman."

"How are you going to get to the surveillance if he's there?"

"Hide in a broom closet and wait until he makes a round."

Link glanced to the door. "Okay. I'm shutting up now."

"Head over here." Blake said, "There isn't anything else to find over there."

Blake was right. He opened the door, went back the way he came, and went after him.


	12. Chapter 12

Interlinking

(Disclaimed)

Happy fourth, ya'll!

* * *

Chapter twelve:

When Link found the manager's office, he found Blake sitting at the desk pouring intently over half the office in the light from the computer and his flashlight.

What _did_ he study in college?

"Their supplier is Mertan Chemical and Mineral. It's in Eldin."

"Oh. Yes. I know." he said, listening with half an ear, he waved his hand dismissively, nearly knocked over a desk toy, "If we had done this the day after, we might have been able to go to Mertan and look through their stock yard, see if there were any discrepancies between their stock and their records. As it stands right now—I just have some foggy evidence of bribery, a little unrelated embezzlement, and an order to delete all of the security footage. No particular date or anything. Just an order to delete _all_ of it—and that was hard to find. We don't really have anything."

"We have enough to know something is going on, though. We know it isn't an accident."

"I suppose we _could_ try to find out if Mertan listed the stock as stolen or not—but it would just be babble to us. Even then, inconclusive. We don't know the poison used—I _could_ take this evidence of embezzlement, try to bargain with the manager—this _Heimlich—_try to get him to confess what he hid, but even then, we can't do anything with that but take it to tabloids."

"So we take it to tabloids."

"But no one will print it. Not with out really, really strong evidence. Which we don't have. You can't just implicate Ganondorf with scraps of paper we can't directly connect him to. He's more powerful than that."

"Then we don't. I don't need to." Link shook his head, "Sure, I wanted to know who was behind it—but you were right, its too late. We'll do what we can—and wait and see if whoever's behind this, Ganondorf, terrorists, whatever, to do something else. It would be nice if everyone knew—but if we're the only two that know it, fine. We can still do something."

Neither one of them was actually happy with that answer. Blake shuffled the papers around, put the files away, except for photocopies of what he needed. He put those in a folder, which he slipped in his back pack, he spoke while he packed up, "Well—I still need to get down to security. It should be below us—deactivate the cameras, delete the footage from tonight, see if I can't recover some files."

"Cool."

"And—I really did not want to—but we've found so little here we should get down to their warehouse. It is probably by the filtration system—and maybe we _can_ find something someone left behind."

"Thank you."

"Anytime." Blake put away the last paper, "Let's move—but careful. The guard might be making the rounds already."

They left the office together, looking both ways. It was hard to hear their own footsteps against the tile floor, hearing a guard would be difficult unless he had very, very, squeaky shoes. Link doubted he _did_. No security guard would. They did not run into him down the hall, or on the stairs, and Link worried they would find him dead in his chair. His office was dark, except for the few computer screens that monitored the cameras.

"He would have see us." Link knitted his eyebrows, "So he would have gone to look—We would have see him."

"No. He's there. In the warehouse." Blake pointed to a screen, where a man in a dark cap was walking down rows of crates in a big, cement-floored room. "Must have stepped out when we showed up, checked the offices while we climbed the wall, left when we got in. You really _are_ lucky."

He took a flash drive from around his neck, plugged it into the computer and muttered, "Okay, show me what you've got." Link waited around while he worked, looked at the wall. There were a few photographs up, family, friends, other guards, a map on the wall. Link tore it down. Blake jumped, looked back at him, "Could you be less noticeable?"

"He'll just print another one." Blake shook his head, looked back to the computer screen. Link wished he could understand what he was doing, how he recovered files. Blake did not seem eager to share at the moment. The guard was making his way back to them, "Could you hurry it up?"

"I'm downloading something."

"He's coming back."

"Don't worry I'll be done in two seconds. If he gets to close, just run past him. He'll chase you, I'll catch up, and we'll lock him in a broom closet. But we shouldn't have to do that. I'm almost done."

Link looked down at the map. The office was filled in black, the warehouse was clearly labeled. There was one hallway he could lose him in, maybe, "Done!" Blake said triumphantly.

Link looked up.

The computers had blue screened!

"Blake, we're not trying to deliberately get him fired! What did you _do?"_

_"_Saved a pre-made image file as the screen saver, turned off sleep mode and disconnected the mouse and keyboard." He was incredibly pleased with himself, "Somehow manages to work every time." he put the flash drive around his neck, "Now, move."

They ducked into a side hall when they heard the security guard coming around a corner, pressed themselves flat against the wall, and waited for him to pass out of earshot. Link was glad the place echoed softly with the sound of the water running through the turbines and filters. He would have heard them. They left the office building, which let out on the other side of the secondary dam, opened up into a raised area, concrete, spreading for a good distance dotted with five perfectly round pools of water, twenty to twenty five feet across. Link looked down at the lock of water. It must be filtered into then from the bottom somewhere. He did not see any hoses or anything. It was already cold—the cooling effect to the water did not help. He shivered, urged Blake on, and they made their way to the chemical warehouse, secured with a heavy padlock, Blake let Link practice raking it open.

It was large inside, but that was to be expected. They had to purify water for the entire city.

"There should be an inventory around here." Blake glanced around, "You look for that. I'll look for anything marked with a comically oversized skull and cross bones."

"Okay."

In the darkness, it was not much different than Ordon's stockroom. The floor was cement, the walls were plaster, only half-painted, and the ceiling was high. Link found an office, with a clipboard of inventory beside it. He reached for it, looked it over—wished he could recall the scary-sounding names he had learned in the office. He looked back through the pages, checked the wall, and saw a sticky note on the door frame, with words scribbled on it_, inquire about use of 22 40 oz bottles of hydrofluoric acid. Order more if needed._

That was a scary-sounding name Link did not know. He tore it off.

"Fl-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Link gasped and turned around. He saw a flashlight move chaotically over the ceiling. Link did not need the radio to hear the small clamor Blake raised on the opposite end of the large stockroom. He used it anyway, "The floor is lava! I repeat, _the floor is lava."_

_"__What are you talking about?"_

There was a high hiss, a caterwaul, crackling energy, then a painful zapping sound. Blake had just used his taser on something. Link started running through the maze of plastic-bound boxes towards him. He found Blake sitting on a low stack of boxes, eyes wide under his ski mask, focused on the floor, taser in his hand. Link followed his eyes, and he saw a large hand-shaped black mark on the floor, like a shadow had been burned into the cement. "Did you just taser a Floor master?"

"Yeah. Yeah I did. I have tasered a floor master." his voice was a strange combination of furious and ecstatic. "Thank you for giving me this exiting and enriching experience. My life is complete."

"I'm sorry."

"No." Shaking, Blake slid down, "No, It's fine. Just let me get a picture. The tabloids _will_ publish that."

"Damn it, Blake."

"No, no this is good." he insisted, getting ready to snap a picture, "It's proof. Floor Masters are inherently magic—and integral part of the old legends. No one knew why they were in the temples. Some say they were evil, put there by Ganondorf to hinder Link. Others say they were servants of the goddess, meant to test him."

"And what do you think?"

"Guess this proves they're evil." he replied, snapping a pictograph next to the crate of chemicals for reference, "Course... Everyone is going to say this is doctored." he took another, "Look how big it was—that's like eight feet tall."

He was right. Link ran his toe over the mark, a little of it came off on his shoe, like coal dust, chips of graphite, or soft, black ash. He rolled it between his fingers, "I found a note. There might be some bottles of hydrofluoric acid around here somewhere and—" he double checked, "That's not listed on the official inventory."

"Work our way to the front, then." Blake said, his encounter with the Floor Master briskly shaken off. He walked away, flashlight in one hand, pictobox in another. Link went the other way, going all the way to the back corner.

And that was where he found the jars of acid. They were tucked away, between the chlorine and the wall, hidden under a plastic cloth. Was he dreaming? Was there some kind of misunderstanding? Was hydrofloric acid not something they were actually looking for?

He checked the inventory again, going through every page. There was no record of it at all. He pushed the cloth back, wound up the disposable pictobox, and took a picture, the flash lit up the wall behind it. He got a few good angles, made sure the labels were as clear as possible in each one. He tried to take pictures of the inventory list, but the print was too small for the pictobox to pick up.

"_OH GODS NO ITS UP AGAIN._"

Link dropped the clip board, put away the pictobox and took out his boomerang and climbed up the boxes, cutting across the maze. He lifted the boomerang up, but there was nothing to hit. There was nothing there. No Blake. No Floor Master. Nothing. He looked back, expecting to see a black hand getting read to grab him, too. Nothing, just dim light.

He nearly screamed when he heard static from his radio.

"SMITH!" Blake's voice exclaimed in a quiet, tense hiss, "Smith! I can't see! I can't—Nayru's Love I—" There was a thud. The panic in his voice died abruptly, "I'm in a broom closet. It put me in a broom closet."

"Where?"

Link took out the map and spread it out in front of him, looking for anything that looked remotely like a broom closet.

"How should I know? I—Shh!"

Blake went quiet. Link waited for him to say something. When he did respond again, "I hear voices—far away."

"Security guard?"

"No—no I don't think he'd be laughing. I think I'm in maintenance. By the filtration system. Shh—they're coming by."

Link folded up the map again and climbed down the boxes, looking for anything Blake left behind. Nothing. He hurried to the front door, waiting to hear Blake's voice over the radio again. When he reached the door, tried it—unlocked—he heard Blake again, "They passed. I'm in the broom closet by the break room."

Link looked at the map again. The break room was at the far end, one floor down, at the end of one hallway that split into three. Link was above him, on the catwalk that went over the filters and tanks of water—at the other end. The catwalk, he hoped, was for supervising—maybe no one would be using it? It would only take him about half way, from there he would have to find a way down after making sure the three had passed him by. "Did they say where they were going?"

"No—but if they were on break, it's safe to assume there are others."

"Have you tried opening the door?"

"Yes. I've tried that."

Link looked down again, hope all the machines were as loud as the one below him, and hurried along the catwalk towards Blake. He did not want to attack anyone—but if they saw him, what choice did he have? Who would believe, _a Floor Master trapped my partner in a broom closet._

What time was it?

He looked at his watch. Only ten thirty.

He wondered what Marin was doing, if she was warm enough, he knew she was probably worried about him—but she trusted Blake enough to leave him alone with him—so maybe she was not too worried. He crept along, wondered what hydrofluoric acid was used for—how the Floor Master had gotten there. Where they back up security for every government building, or just this one? Had they been here all the time, or were they a new addition? Where did the come from, really? And why had it put Blake in a broom closet?

Why had Blake been dumb enough to get _caught_ by one?

To be entirely fair to Blake, he had probably never seen one before—and it had been large. Even the second time, it was probably surprising. And if Link was going to start laying blame this had been _his_ stupid idea. Blake could have said no, of course—but that was not the way Blake was.

Thinking did not change anything. Link skimmed his hand along the cold metal of the catwalks railing as he crept along it. He just had to get Blake and get out. It was empty enough—they could probably pull it off.

Gods, this place was huge.

He reached a ladder, which went to a lower section of catwalk. He looked up. The ceiling went down, too. Made sense that he was gradually going lower and lower—the water probably went into a third underwater tank. Not as efficient as a natural aquifer, but it did the job, all the same.

He stepped down lightly, kept going. His thoughts turned to the car they left at the gas station, the girl that owned it, the smell that hung about it. He knew it was familiar—but he had not seen that perfume bottle before. It was not Marin's, and Aryll did even bother with perfume. Where was it from? Why had Beedle been put so on edge? Was he just nervous for Link? Maybe.

Where had he—

"I mean—can you _believe_ they ended the season with that?"

He was out of catwalk. He was right about the third holding tank. It was quiet here. The tanks were so large they put quite a lot of distance between Link and the turbines. The loudest thing was the filter in the other section of the building, and that was a dull murmur. He crouched down, hoped none of them were in the habit of looking up when they walked.

They were too wrapped up in a heated discussion about the latest episode of some TV show to pay him any mind as they meandered at an agonizingly slow pace. Link wanted to scream at them to hurry it up, but that would defeat the purpose of hiding. He waited while they walked the length of the third tank. It was larger and deeper than any swimming pool he had ever seen. It took a while. There was a ladder he could drop down, he had to inch it down bit by bit, eyes watching the technicians as they meandered along, so it did not fall down with a loud crash. He had to straddle the gate to get over it. He did not have a key and did not want to waste time with the locks. He climbed down the ladder and ran down the straight hallway to the storage closet where Blake was confined.

"You in there?"

"Yes. Get me out, quick."

He slid the lock picks under the door. It took a few tries for him to get it open. He was nervous. When the lock clicked, Blake pushed the door open, nearly hitting him in the head. They fumbled to get the tools put away, then they ran for the ladder, Link climbing up first, pulling Blake over the gate behind him. They tumbled down with a little crash, and tried to pull the ladder back up as quietly as they could. It was not very quiet.

"Hurry. It's a long way."

But it was at least a straight pathway. They went as quickly and as quietly as they could, stopped dead still and threw themselves back when they saw the technicians running in the other direction. They stopped about twenty or so feet away. Link and Blake were in their blind spot—but not out of earshot. They could not move until they left.

"The ladder's up."

"There!" One of them pointed.

"Shit!" Blake grabbed him, pushed him up the short ladder to the upper lever, "Gogogo!"

"Okay, okay!"

They were out of sight when they reached the door outside, but they were still chasing them down, maybe calling security. They raced past the warehouse, went back into the office building, and barreled past the security guard. He grabbed a hold of the back of Link's hoodie, but did not tear it off. He glanced back, made sure his head was still covered, and felt bad for him. He was just one guy, after all, one guy with a family to support, and it was not his fault, what had happened to Aryll. Link would feel terrible if he lost his job because of this.

Blake grabbed his arm, pulled him along, going to the fire exit. He tackled it open, slammed it shut again as the alarms blared. He fumbled with his back pack, took out the carpet sample and handed it to Link, ordering again, "Go. Up the fence."

They scrambled up it, and over. Blake just dropped down, cringing as his ankles were shocked by the impact, and shoved it away again while Link scrambled down. He wondered what was keeping the guard, Blake grabbed his arm, "Come _on_. He's probably calling the cops. Move."

Link obeyed. It was hard to take the exact same route when they both wanted to run along it at break neck speed. The further they got, the quieter it got again, until they reached the stony bank and it was all dead quiet except for the murmur of someone's television. Link began to calm down—He glanced at Blake in the faint light. Was he angry?

Blake looked back, saw the worry in his eyes, tried to lighten the mood, "That was fun."

"You don't mean that."

"Yes I do. I mean that. That was fun. You're still invited to meet my family and you're still required to bring Marin."

Link rolled his eyes. No one was shouting after them, though, and that gave him time to think. He tried to connect the few dots that had been drawn in front of him—but they both knew it had been a disappointment. Good practice, sure, but a disappointment. It was late, maybe around eleven, getting colder by the seconds. At least the bandanna, hood, and gloves kept him warm—it had been adrenaline at first, but that was wearing off now that the danger was over. The only thing gained was experience. Nothing was really _lost _yet. There was nothing from the accident to really think about.

Now that it was over, the car started nagging him again. He had pushed it from his mind because the running had been more important—but now it was not. He kept thinking about it.

"Don't be so down." Blake told him, "It was not a disaster."

"I'm not disappointed—just thinking about something else."

"What else?"

"The car. Why did Beedle flip out about the car?"

"Well, Beedle doesn't like getting the reputable sort messed up with our line of work. He probably hated it when they dragged you into it."

Blake had a point. Link had already drawn that conclusion, though, and he was not entirely convinced. "I'm starving."

Blake laughed, "Me too—I'm not buying you food again, though. You're going home."

They reached the little cliff again by that point, and Link saw little hints of red and blue flashing. Blake saw it too, he froze, held his hand up, listening. Link did not hear sirens or voices. "Some idiot must have tried robbing the store—or the cops are towing that car. I thought it'd be gone by now, but maybe they're having a busy day." Blake crouched down in the damp soil, "They'll be gone in thirty minutes or so. I'll go ahead and call up a member of the fellowship."

"What?"

"Cab driver. He's named Link. So he's a member of the fellowship."

"The Moblin?"

"Yeah, yeah, the Moblin." Blake held the phone to his ear, cleared his throat, and waited. Link heard the phone ring for a while, and then Blake said, in a good impression of his drunken self, "Liiink—come get me—I'm in The Zora's Quarter. I—What?" His voice got very sober very fast, "What do you mean...?"

All Link could hear was an angry mumble. Blake did not say anything. Link watched in mounting terror as Blake lowered the phone, hung up, and stayed perfectly still, looking out over the empty lake. His stomach started to turn in knots—he would give anything to know Aryll and Marin were going to be okay with out him. His voice seemed small—and he noticed how painfully quiet it was when he asked, "What?"

"Everything's going to be fine."

Everything was not going to be fine.

"Blake—What's going on?"

Blake swallowed, and Link wondered why he did not just call another cab—but Blake was not an idiot, he knew perfectly well they could call another cab—or just wait out the police so they could get their hands on a phone book. Blake shook his head, glanced back to the corner, "I don't know myself. He did not really say. He did not really know, either but—The Gerudo. Ganondorf sent them. It's not your fault. Someone's just loose. Someone he wants. It can't be you—and I know its not me."

It occurred to Link that this information should frighten him—for some reason, it just settled him down. All they had to do was wait it out. But how long would it last? Hours? Minutes? Could it last for days before they gave up and went home? Would they think to look over here? It was just a matter of following foot prints between a row of houses. How long had they been there? At most, two hours already. Two and a half. The cold mud had begun to seep through his gloves and boots. He sat down beside black on the dryest patch of earth there was—it was warm by him, at least, though the concrete lip under the wooden fence was hardly comfortable seating, it was better than the damp ground.

Then Link's brain decided all at once it would be a wonderful time to let him remember who's perfume that was.


	13. Chapter 13

Interlinking

(Disclaimed)

Okay, well, with this chapter we've finally done something warrants that M rating.

Also we did it in as ludicrous and implausible way as possible.

Go team!

* * *

Chapter thirteen:

"It's the car."

"It's not the car."

"It's the car." Link insisted. "No—it is. That bottle of perfume I found—I know who's it was—"

"Smith, that's a bottle of perfume from Parasol Tower." Blake was clearly worried. He spoke with his hands, gloved fingertips clipping Link's nose, "Lots of girls wear it. It could even be the the the most popular in town. _Marin_ probably wears it."

"Except she doesn't."

"What?"

"Marin wears—something. Some citusy thing. And she hates it—but its the most popular fragrance, so she wears it because that makes customers buy it. She makes money on commission—and she gets a higher commission if she sells what they want her to sell—so if half the girls in town wear anything, they wear what Marin wears."

"Get to the point."

"Zelda wore it. That's Zelda Hylsen's car."

There was a pause. Blake shook his head, answered slowly, "No... Zelda Hylsen's car was impounded for evidence."

Link did not even bother asking how he knew that, "Unless the Ganondorf got a hold of it and put it right back where it was found, in hopes that's she'd be stupid enough to pick it up again!"

"Then why the hell did he leave the keys in?" Blake whispered furiously, moving his hand angrily, "He was asking for someone else to steal it."

"Blake, not even I would go to the fifth floor of a parking garage to steal a car."

"Fifth floor has no cameras—"

"Why are there so many _holes_ in his security net?"

"He likes crime! It gives him something to crack down on."

"What?"

"No—no I've studied this. He cracks down on crime on fourteen month intervals—regularly. The punishments get harsher, arrests more regular. He turns on the useless cameras, switches to a backup system in Kakariko and Holodrum, takes tours of the prisons—"

Link could not contain his curiosity anymore, "Blake, what are you studying in school?"

There was a pause again, "Finance."

"Seriously?!"

"Don't get mad at _me_ how do you know what perfume Zelda Hyslen was wearing when she ran off? Who wears perfume when they're running away?"

Link repeated the same story he had given to Detective Sheikston—he even told him about her, and her partner—and he told him what Beedle had told him, that he knew her, and she had left the city. He had not told him where—he might have, if Blake had not interrupted. Blake listened, nodded, then nodded a little too much, like he knew the story, or he stopped caring. When Link wrapped things up, he asked, "So you talked to the Department of Unprofessional Hair, did you?"

"Yes, whatever. If Ganondorf is looking for Zelda, they won't leave—and if the police know we were back there—" he nodded to Hyrule Public Water Commission, "They'll know soon enough, put two and two together. We aren't Zelda, but we're sitting ducks here."

Blake glanced at the lake, then up Toto Street, thinking. Then he ordered, "Follow me and do exactly as I say."

They went past Toto Street. Link looked and saw the car was still there, pinned in by black vans, and a small host of Gerudo. None of them noticed him. Blake grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the next street over. They lost the advantage of being between the backs of two rows of houses. They were pinned between the front gates, with no fences to hide them. Blake went another street down. The edge was uncomfortably narrow again—the mud had slid down recently, someone had lost part of their fence to the water, but shrugged it off, built a nice deck over it. The passage between the houses was much thinner. Blake had to take off the backpack to get through it. Loose boards and nails tore at Link's clothing, but did not tear off the bandanna.

Blake poked his head out. There was one extra house in front of them, between the Gerudo and the car, and them. They could hide behind it, breathe a little freer, and decide their next move. Blake motioned for him to follow. Keeping close to the fence, he went around behind the gas station, slipping behind the dumpster and stopping at the other corner. Blake held him at arms length while he looked around the corner. Link heard the door flying open. Blake jumped back, stepped around him, pinning him to the wall. He told him firmly, "Stay." then, lightly as quietly as a cat, he climbed on top of the dumpster, on top of the roof. He vanished.

He knew Blake had told him to stay, and he knew he had promised to do as he was told—but there was no way he meant for Link to stay confined to a little square where he could not see what was going on—and clearly there was something going on. Link looked around the corner. He heard the woman's voice, still saw the blockade of black vans trapping in Zelda's car, but he could not see the woman speaking. He glanced around, down, under the window there was a cooler, filled with ice. The night was already cold, but his curiosity, the rush over here, kept him warm. He slipped along the wall and ducked behind the cooler.

He would regret looking for the rest of his life.

"Don't be stupid!" The woman exclaimed. Link heard the sound of a head colliding with plexiglass painfully, but he did not see it. "I know two men did not drive up in _that_ car. I _know_ it was a girl. Where did she go!"

"I was a couple of guys. I swear." Link craned his neck to get a decent view. He found one, twisting uncomfortably and pressing his temple against the cold wall, right eye lined up with the narrow space between the cooler and the painted brick. A pair of Gerodo women stood there at the front of the shop with someone, probably the store manager, corralled against the corner of the building, the edge digging between his shoulder blades. One of them had him by the collar, the other stood back, hands folded. All of their focus was on him—they did not see Blake above them, they did not see Link where he hid. He was bald, green, scaly. A Tokay. "Check the cameras." he said, "It was two men. I told you so on the phone."

"I don't want the cameras to tell me." she insisted, she shifted her weight from one metal-covered boot to the next. They were armed to the teeth—they all were. Guns, knives, and if there was not that, there was magic. The Gerudo were the only ones allowed to openly practice magic. Link glanced to the hip of the one closest to him, on the shop keeper's left, the one holding his shirt in both fists. She had a scorched baton. Scorch marks, definitely a magic user. He glanced up at the hair of the other. Normally Gerudo had red hair, coppery and madder-colored. This one had little flecks of white, icy blue. He glanced at the other—a flickering line of golden fire trailed from her temple down her long pony tail.

The Twinrova.

Link swallowed, looked at the ground, wishing he had not seen a thing—wishing he could just sink into the pavement. They were only sent out by Ganondorf himself, and for really, _really_ big things. He was a little confused, too. He had heard the rumors about the pair today, but he did not know anyone that had encountered them in person—so the rumor _was_ that they were young, brutal. But the sisters in the stories were old women; sorceresses, Ganondorf's _mothers_—but he supposed that even the Kotake and Koume of the old stories _had_ to be young women once, to—So, had they been reborn? Must be a little _weird_. Ganondorf was—What? Nearing his eighties, at least. He was old. Link did not really know how old. He had ruled the city for as long as he could remember, as long as his parents would have remembered, and his grandmother.

How weird was it to live so long you met the reincarnations of your family? He had to die at some point—who would be in charge then? Would they—mother a new one? They were sisters. How did that work?

He tried very hard _not_ to image how that worked. They were sorceresses. They could probably read minds.

She continued speaking, oblivious to that he was thinking. She gave the Tokay a little shake, knocking his head against the corner of the building, pulling him off his feet, "I want _you_ to tell me."

Then the other one, Kotake—or Koume—which ever one she was, the one with the blue in her hair—slid her fingers over her baton, slipped it out of its sling. There was a weight on the end, heavy, judging by the sound it made when she bounced it against her palm. She made it look like a pebble, but Gerudo women were strong—able to arm wrestle Gorons and win. The ones that owed their allegiance to Ganondorf were said to be even stronger, given special training. "We have it on good authority that a girl owns that car—and when you called it in, it was not reported as stolen."

"But it must have been."

The flames in Koume's hair gave a little, angry flicker. She growled, tossed her head, half pulled him up by the shirt, half pushed him up by the chin. She raised her knee, slammed it into his groin, and shrieked over his exclamation of pain, "Tell the truth!" baring her teeth with ever word. Kotake just stood back and grinned, tossed her baton.

Answers were futile. They were determined not to believe him. They _wanted_ to beat the poor man. Silence was condemnation, words were lies. Link wanted to move, rail against the injustice, _fight them_. It was better than just cowering where he was, waiting for them to find a good excuse to kill their prey. They were just toying with him, it was a game of cat-and-mouse to them. Only some miracle, some spell of cleverness, or a lie, would keep him alive. Link's limbs began to burn—like he had just run a hundred miles with out stopping, like he had to run a hundred more. The feeling would not go away until he did something. He had to do something. They were looking for _him_, for Zelda, and they knew the shop keeper did not know a thing. It was written all over their faces. He had to do something. Anything.

Koume held the Tokay up with one hand in his shirt, with the other, she punched him swiftly across the jaw, then she took out her own baton, jammed it under his ribs, not hard enough to kill him, or break the skin, but enough to hurt. Link grimaced, glanced up. He saw Blake leaning over the side of the roof, phone out. He was filming it, like it was nothing. Link frowned. Useless. He looked around—what could he do? He had one boomerang. That was it. He was out numbered.

It was better than just sitting around. He reached for the boomerang, but Kotake's voice stopped him, "Perhaps we _should_ check the tapes."

Her voice was much calmer, cooler. Laced with ice. Link focused on them again. The Koume looked impatient, annoyed. Kotake arched her already arching eyebrows even higher, they vanished under her fathered, frosty hair.

Koume dropped the Tokay, "_Fine_—check them."

"Except—the driver's side door—out of focus from the cameras."

Link looked up at Blake again. He had done that on purpose. But Blake was gone. Link squinted up. Where had he gone?

"So really, sister—there's no way we can really know for sure. If he's telling the truth or not. But... He knows who we are—What reason would he have to lie?"

She started walking, circling around them. Link worried she was going to find him, he pressed himself against the cooler, looked for an escape route, but running would make noise. Staying put would be more quiet.

"E-exactly!" the Tokay stammered, trying to slip away from them. Koume grabbed his collar, Link heard the fabric burning—soon he could smell it. The man whimpered, gasped, screamed a little. She let him go, pushing him back against the glass.

"Where did she go?"

"There was no girl!" he insisted, "It was two men. They went _that way. _To the lake."

"There is _nothing_ that way."

Link heard footsteps, a low voice hissed, "Ma'am—news. From Ganondorf—" The rest was just a low whisper. Link looked again, tried to read the Gerudo's lips, but her hand cupped against Kotake's ear and he did not see what she was saying. She tugged down her vest, cleared her throat. Koume tossed her head, leaving little flicking tongues of flames around, angry that she was left out of the loop.

"Well. It seems we owe you an apology." Kotake said flatly. She folded her hands behind her back twirled her baton, "It _was_ two young men. They were least seen escaping from Hyrule Public Water Commission. However—we cannot have you spreading any rumors that Ganondorf is looking for a little girl. Such..._ unsavory_ news would cause unrest. You understand don't you?"

"Y-yes I understand completely. I won't tell a soul!"

"We're so glad you understand." Kotake said with just a hint of a smile. She drew her baton forward again, rested the weight lightly, delicately, on her long fingers, an unspoken threat. "And Ganondorf thanks you for your cooperation."

Then, as calmly as you please, she lifted up her baton, and brought it down swiftly, freezing the poor shop keeper's head in a block of ice. Link gasped, eyes locked onto him as he clawed at it, struggled to breathe, trying to get it off, but there was nothing he could do. He nearly cried out when he felt hands grab him, cover his mouth. "I told you to stay put." he heard Blake hiss into his ear.

Link could not respond.

The Tokay fell to his knees, hidden by the ice machine they were behind, Blake actually grabbed his face and hid it, forcing him much closer to his neck than Link had ever wanted to be. "Don't look, kid."

There was a sudden, terrible noise—like a boot hitting a rock, a ripping sound, a little like fabric tearing. It sounded a little bit like frozen beef splitting. It was followed by _something_ hitting the freezer with enough force to make it rattle painfully, shake, but not fall over. Then it ricocheted of the edge, snapped in two, and fell right in front of their hiding place. It shattered, exploded. Link felt bits of ice shower over his arm, one working between the cuff of his hoodie and his glove, melting on contact. And water? Link gagged. He wanted to believe it was water. It was not water. It was too warm. Did not smell at all like it. His eyes fluttered open. The freezer had been sprayed with red. He could see the edge of a quickly-growing little pool, gleaming, reflecting the yellow sign by the road. He heard the Twinrova laughing.

"Don't look. Don't look."

But Link looked.

One of them had struck it that block of ice right off his shoulders, the head still inside it. Sent it flying, crashing down, just a few feet in front of their hiding spot behind the cooler, spraying them with shards of ice, bone, blood and—and—Blake clamped a hand over his mouth again to keep him from screaming. The back of his hand was wet with the stuff. Link knew screaming was stupid. They would he caught, heard, killed. The only thing stopping the noise was Blake's hand on his mouth.

Maybe it was not even the owner. Maybe it was just the shift manager. Some poor fellow that was covering for some else. Someone that had just wanted to skip their work to go out on the town. Now he was just _gone_. Slumped across the pavement, blood pouring from his neck. For no reason. No reason at all.

No reason but _him._

Link could not move. He was frozen solid, watching. To say the head had shattered completely was wrong. Part of it had—about three quarters of it, but the remaining fraction was just _sitting there_, a messy cross-section of brain and teeth, blood dripping down the ice and freezing on contact. Steaming. A still in-tact eye looking at him, in fear, asking him why the hell he was not doing anything—why the hell was he here if he was not the one everyone needed him to be?

"What would you have us do, ma'am?"

"Little bitch is wired into the system." Link heard Koume say, but he was not listening. He was just watching the block of frozen head slowly thaw out. "Kill them. All of them. Let her watch, as we pull them from their homes, men, women, children, and slaughter them. Let her hide away _then! _Let her call herself Princess _then._"

Link hated himself. He owed her—and he had just stood there while some one was killed on the road to finding her. If she had not warned him, he would have taken Aryll to the hospital, yes, but _he_ would have been poisoned, too, and Marin—and maybe a few other people. He could not have been the _only_ person she warned, right? She had saved more lives than him. He hated himself. Just sitting here felt like he was betraying her—it was not really betrayal because he hardly knew her, but it still felt so powerful.

"No." Kotake disagreed quickly, "It will serve no purpose—only frighten the city unnecessarily. We poisoned half of Kakariko on your order, and she did not show. She merely used our distraction and the focus in that section of town to make her escape. This—" she paused, must have gestured to the manager's headless body, "Was necessary, because you lost your temper. You told him Zelda was lose. We can pass this off as gang violence easily—we cannot hide the massacre of an entire neighborhood."

Link did pay attention to that. He twisted his head again, looked, but instead of the crack, he saw Blake's phone, still filming.

It was proof. Maybe not for anyone else, but proof enough for him.

Proof Blake had managed to get.

That did not make the store manager's death worth it. Nothing would. No information was worth the cost someone else's life. Link thought about how he would have traded everyone's life for Aryll the night she was poisoned. That seemed so selfish now. How could he have even considered such a horrible thing?

"We have to find her!"

"No—No she will come on her own. On her own time. She always does. Our job is not to find her. Our job is to ensure that Ganondorf still has a hold on this city when she returns—to make sure there is still a city to fight over. If you go on another killing spree, they will take her side." She turned her head. Blake crouched down a little lower, worried she had seen them, his phone lost focus, "Or—you'll call down something more formidable than her."

Link began to shake violently, no longer solid. They looked like murders. Link felt like a murder. He fought back the need to vomit. He had thought himself used to gore, dismemberment. He worked at _Romani_, after all, but he was not. He was used to seeing bone, fat and meat, cold, stiff, already dead and drained of blood. Lacking a face, a skin, an identity. This was a mess.

Blake untangled himself from Link, kept his phone focused on the Twinrova, and waited. They turned, started to walk away. Blake focused his camera on the shop keeper's head for a moment, then began to back away, jerking his head, signaling for Link to follow. Link had forgotten how to move. His entire body felt like jelly and all he could think was that he wanted to see Marin, go home. He could hardly remember what they had even been doing in this part of town. But he did follow. They made their way along the last two houses, and Link worried for a second that they would be noticed, but so many things happened all at once, they never were.

The first thing to happen was that someone—a woman—burst out of the front door, screaming in anguish. She distracted every eye, but Koume was the first to react, slinging her baton haphazardly, a great tongue of flame formed, growing longer and longer until it caught the Tokay woman around the neck, searing her flesh, pulling her down. Someone else shot her in the head. The next thing to happen—just a blink after, really, was that someone ran out of the fire exit on the side. Link did not see them, but he heard the slam of the door and the blaring sirens. Then he heard the gunshots.

And the third thing was so far away, and so silent, Link scarcely noticed it. Blake certainly did not notice it, he was too busy pulling Link away, and none of the Gerudo noticed, because they were all looking for stragglers, but there there was a great flash of light in the middle of the city, from Ganondorf's fortress, the top of the tower. It had been fast, like lightning, but accompanied by no rumbling thunder. It was a great column of white light, it remained, pulsing rapidly, like an enraged heartbeat, a beacon, for a few seconds, and then it vanished.

It was over quicker than it had started.

And soon Link had forgotten about it, anyway, because he was focused on Blake in front of him, putting one foot in front of the other, and following him, keeping awake, as they ran as quickly as they could from the gas station, weaving through back streets, heading away from Labyrnna, in to the Zora's Quarter. Link was no stranger to running long distances. He had been almost-late plenty of times—and it was not far from Mikau to the edge of bright, musical, Quarter. He had run further. But his chest felt tight. His mouth was dry. He was burning on the inside, freezing outside. His head was spinning and he felt starvation and nausea at the same time. He could hardly see. When he lagged too far behind, Blake grabbed his wrist and pulled him along, down a dark alleyway, just a little narrow path behind some buildings. A back entrance to some restaurant or shop. Blake stopped abruptly, grabbed Link by the shoulders, and screamed, "I told you to stay where you _were. _I told you to do exactly as I said!" then he demanded, "Look at me!"

Link could not get his eyes to focus on anything. When he tried to drag them to Blake's face, they kept slipping away, to the right, to the one street lamp at the very end of the little alley. Blake gave him a little shake, and that worked for a little bit. He looked at him, but with the mask on, the black paint around his eyes, Link could not register any emotion on his face.

Who the hell saw something like that and did not feel anything after wards?

A _monster_, that's who. Link shoved him back, shouted, "You heartless bastard you just filmed it like it was _nothing!"_

Blake reeled back, grabbed a hold of a small metal banister to keep from falling into the water. He took a deep, resolute breath, like he was about to shout something, but changed his mind. He took a moment to collect himself, took a step back out of arm's reach, and set the backpack down, more concerned with his precious evidence than anything else. Link looked at it. It angered him even more. It was the cause of all this. "That is why I told you to stay where you could not see anything." he answered calmly. "I've already seen some things. Horrible things. You'll get used to seeing horrible things. You just learn to deal with them."

"By _what?_ Drinking?"

"I said I dealt with it. I never said it was healthy. I thought, at best, they would just drag him away and you would never know he was going to die."

"Why? Because it's my fault?"

Blake's voice gained an edge, hard, frightened. "It's not your fault!"

"Yes it is! They were looking for us. They were looking for the person that drove that car."

"Which one of us _stole_ that car?" Blake shot back. He did not give Link a chance to reply, "Me. I could have taken any other car. There were two more on that floor of the parking lot _alone_, but that one had the keys already inside of it, the door was unlocked. He died because _I_ was too lazy to break into a car and hot wire it."

It was not Blake's fault. Link shook his head. It was all he could think of—this was all his fault. He was the one that had asked for this. "I put you up to it!"

"You didn't ask me to take that car!"

"But it was still my idea!"

"Because your kid sister was poisoned and you wanted to know why! You want to know why _I _did it? I think your sister's hot. Literally the only thing that could make my motivation any worse is if Aryll was your _only_ sister."

Link shook his head, wrapped his arms around himself, and pressed his back against the brick wall. He shivered. "No. No this is my fault."

The edge in Blake's voice went away. He joined Link by the wall, put an arm around his shoulders. He did not say anything at first, and after a few minute Link wondered if he did not have anything to say. As far as he was concerned, it just re-affirmed his own guilt. Blake rubbed his arm, then finally said, "You are not the first person to get someone killed trying to do what you thought was best. Yes, people died tonight, and no, maybe it wasn't worth it. We have to make it worth it. We may never be able to—but you have to keep trying. If you give up it will all have been for nothing."

"But, Blake—"

"It was not your fault. We were the cause of his death, but we did not kill him. _You_ did not kill him." His voice cracked a little, and Link managed to calm down enough to wonder why. What was he hiding? Blake let go of him, folded his arms, and stared at the water. "I don't care how you remember that. Just remember it. Wake up every morning, look at your self in the mirror, and tell yourself it was not your fault. I won't tell you not to think about it—because that's the sure way to blame yourself. So think about it. Dwell on it. Think about it every morning, and every night—and remember that you did not kill him. Just don't. Don't do it."

Link did not say a word.

"Just, don't end up like _me. _Don't end up drinking yourself to sleep every night because you cant... _stop seeing_ the consequences of the mistakes you've made. Don't do that—because when you've reached that point it won't matter how much good you do it will _never_ be enough."

"Who did you—" That was the wrong way to ask, "What happened?"

Blake shook his head, "Can't tell you sober." he replied, clearly wanting to stop their heart-to-heart before it had a chance to properly begin, "Don't want to risk being drunk when we get you home. They'll expand their search soon. We had better move. There are still a few more Links we can dig up."

Was their some conspiracy of Links that Link was not part of? Had they just _all_ decided they were the Hero Hyrule deserved? Blake picked up the back pack and went up the stone stairs, knocking on the wooden door. It was pained red, not sealed, so the paint was chipping, revealed that it had been painted black, and green, too, before unvarnished, primed, wood. "Who lives here?"

The red door opened and a Zora woman stood behind it. He face was painted up to look like a mask, cords and feathers and beads meant to resemble dreadlocks and hair covered her head, concealed the fish-like tail protruding from the back. A feather boa was wrapped around her shoulders, and a collar of lace covered the three gills on either side of her long, elegant neck. Link was bad with ages to begin with—she looked about thirty, maybe forty. She wore an older-style dress, high-heeled shoes, but no stockings. She smelled strongly of perfume.

She did not like the look of them, reached for the door knob, and tried to shut them out, but Blake reached forward, "Ruto."

Her expression abruptly changed, shiny black eyes going from suspicion to joy and concern. She extended her pale arms to him, Her sleeves were short, ending at the elbow, and buttoning up in a line to her shoulder, to accommodate the long, elegant, almost silk-sheer fins on her forearms. "Did you boys cause that ruckus across the pond? Come in, quickly, both of you."

"No." Blake shook his head, "No just take all of this. Keep it safe. I'll come get it tomorrow." he handed her all of the evidence they had collected, "Stay indoors. And no matter what the news said happened in Labrynna, don't believe it. I'll explain then, too."

"Now Blake you hold on just a moment there!" Ruto exclaimed, and the she pointed at Link, "Look at that poor boy he looks like he's going to collapse—and you look like you could use a stiff drink, even under that mask. Now, what ever you've done—you've done plenty for me. I'll be damned if I let you run away when you clearly need a safe place to hide."

The, before either one could protest, she grabbed then both and pulled them into the darkness behind the red door.

* * *

Shit's getting real now.


	14. Chapter 14

Interlinking

(Disclaimed)

* * *

Chapter fourteen:

Every few seconds, he glanced towards Smith. They were safely hidden away in the sitting room with Ruto and Link Kingsfjord, owners two hotels in the Zora's Quarter, the Golden Cloister and the Lakeview Motel. Blake, jokingly, referred to them as his 'smoke detectors.' They found the smoke, he found the fire. With their hotel business, they were perfect for it. The Quarter was, after all, a home away from home for the wealthy and powerful—The Lakeview Motel, which they were under currently, was were some seedier scandals could be discovered.

Smith had not reacted. Not to tell him it was no time for jokes. Not to laugh. He had not reacted to anything for quite some time.

After hearing what they had just witnessed, Ruto tried everything she could to calm him down, water, hot cocoa, hot cocoa laced with orange liquor that would ease the fear and anxiety if he would just drink it, and then straight whiskey. Smith would not take it. He sat in his chair, knees under his chin, and stared out at the lake from the window. Their living room was carved right out of the rock, floor, counters, and tables did not need to be bolted down because they were part of the intricately tiled floor. It was a pocket of air, with a little porthole under the table leading directly to the lake below, large enough for a fully-grown Zora to slip through. The water occasionally splashed up over the tiles around it. Fresh air came from above, from the hotel. It brought down the occasional crash from the kitchen staff while they cleaned up and prepared for breakfast at the Lakeview Motel. When the kitchen was quiet, Blake could occasionally hear mutterings from two floors above. He glanced at the wall. It was a crude, basic system. Little metal pipes, great conductors of sound, ran along the rock from their living room to each one of the thirty seven rooms in the hotel. Either Ruto or a cousin or hers had installed it, but the system was no original device. It had been around for a good millennium and a half.

Blake glanced back to the Kingsfjords sitting on the couch. Couch was a loose term. It was a carved, long, structure resembling a couch, covered with cushions and throw blankets. Both were listening intently to the longer story. From meeting Link at Malladus' house, to the murder in Labrynna. Blake told it as quickly as possible, checking his watch.

Smith was not getting home by midnight.

"And the CDs you were trying to get from Malladus' house? He got them?"

"I hope not." Blake shook his head, "But it seems like a good assumption to make. I haven't had time to ask." he glanced at Smith again, "I doubt he even knows."

"Surely he's looked at them?"

"I think if he's looked at them he would not be staring blankly out your window."

"Poor kid." Ruto looked at him now, held a delicate, webbed hand to her chest. Her fingertips, the webbing between them, were a natural, rosy red, like the tips of her fins, deepening to a dark purple and fading to a light blue. The lacey, swirling markings on her face that made it look like a pale mask glowed, dark and iridescent, in the electric light above their heads. Her eyelids fluttered over her dark black, glassy eyes. "But you're right. Something that—_sensitive _would be encrypted beyond belief."

They were talking about a plain, black case of unmarked compact discs. While cleaning a one room in the Golden Cloister, adjacent to one booked by Cole Malladus, a maid had over heard mutterings about this 'black case of unmarked CDs' and, as per the usual, went right to Ruto Kingsfjord with that information. Ruto Kingfjord had given that information to Blake. Two months later, Blake had donned his freshly-pressed, striped vest and gone to the room of Cole Malladus' dear, and proud, old mother, who was hospitalized with a failing kidney. It was there he heard that, yes, Cole had a particularly dark side to his personality.

As a boy, he was prone to picking fights, torturing small animals. She had been concerned at first, for his mind, but as he grew up, supposedly, it tapered off. What she had not known, could never have known, was that the animals really just got larger, and her son just got a little better at hiding it; until the "animals" were people and his "hiding spot" was smack dab in the bowels of Ganondorf's fortress. Cole Malladus was, of course, city counselor, and head of the transportation committee, but that was just his day job. His signature was made into a stamp to save time and everything. His _real_ job was Royal Torture Technician, and he had been given branding irons with his initials to seal the deal.

Blake did not know why _precisely_ Malladus was gone that night. He would someday, but at the moment, he just knew he had not been there. He was supposed to be the _only_ one that knew. But somehow, the Moblins did. Maybe it was a lucky guess. Maybe they had some sort of deep-seated grudge against Smith and had wanted him to get caught. Blake knew he was in his favorite hiding spot, slowly stripping the skin off of someone's fingers.

And Smith had bumbled in, poked around _and picked up his recorded sessions. _Literally, years and years of what Malladus considered his finest work, and Blake considered bloody, loud, terrifying _pay dirt,_ gone. Poof. In a flash. Blake had no idea where they were now. Maybe Ganondorf had gotten them. Maybe Malladus had. Maybe the Moblins still had them. He could have gotten _so much money_ out of him. Everything, really, he could have gotten everything that bastard owned. Now, at best, the Moblins had that leverage, and were working on de-encrypting it. At worst, they had gotten it, been unable to un-code the data, and had thrown it all away. As little as Blake wanted to deal with the Moblins, he needed to find out what had happened to them. For the good of the public, at least.

"Who ever has it, I hope they're assuming its worth while." Blake mused. He glanced at Smith again, took a sip of cocoa. "It will take years for him to build it back up again to make stealing it worth it. I might be dead before that happens. I have a vague idea of where its gone. But I need to investigate it. Before I do that, I need to get to Kakariko. There's still time to get him home around midnight."

If they broke every traffic law in existence.

"The car's at the Cloister. I'll drive you." Kingsfjord stood up. His dorsal tail was green, much like the Hero of Time's old get up. It was green the day he hatched—so they called him Link. Nothing better to call him. Hero of Time had never been born a Zora before—probably never would, "Might want to ditch the clothes, though."

Blake looked down. The Kevlar jacket did stand out. If he wanted to mark a different trail, he did need to get rid of it. He unzipped it, grimaced, the white shirt he wore underneath was sticking to him, uncomfortably sweaty. He had not planned on running. He had a too-large windbreaker to change into. That was it.

"We'll wash that for you." Ruto said quickly, "We're always finding forgotten clothes in the hotel. Borrow some."

She took it, all generosity, but clearly displeased by it the moment it touched her hands, "How do humans _stand_ it?" she tutted to her self as she walked away. She shuddered, her scales and fins bristled. The Zoras did not have sweat glands. They abhorred summer and kept to the water during the hotter months. The quarter actually came to a complete stand-still during high summer, with human help coming in, serving as temporary staff, and ruining the exotic magic. The cold of the winter did not bother them one bit. They loved it.

Blake walked over to Smith, gave him a shake, "Come on. It's time to change clothes and get you home."

He did not say a word. He removed the bandanna from around his neck, then the hoodie and t-shirt he had worn. The jeans and shoes would have to stay—a change of shirts only would have to suffice for now. Ruto came back, tossed them each a shirt. Clearly nothing a Zora would wear. They had an aversion to clothes—only wore them because the humans insisted that they should. So they wore wraps, clothes that would not trap their fins, or dry out their skin too much, loose, a little revealing (not like they had anything to hide). Link fiddled with the black buttons while Blake zipped up his windbreaker. Ruto hid the backpack in a secret compartment of the couch, covered it with a stone slab, as the two followed Link Kingsfjord to the center of the Quarter, catching glimpses of a couple of underwater restaurants as they passed them, a few tourists looking out at the lake from little bubbles of glass. Blake was keenly aware of every small detail. No Gerudo to be seen. They looked to be in the clear, at least for tonight.

He glanced back at Smith and started to wonder.

Suppose he _was_ the Hero of Time? Did Ganondorf have a way of knowing? Was he toying with them? Letting them believe they had gotten away? Oh a scale of one to ten, how badly had he screwed himself over?

No. No if Ganondorf knew for certain, why waste his time and spoil his image by killing every Link he could find a reason to kill? He could not know. Blake grabbed his elbow, urged him on wards. He was dragging his feet a little. He had forgotten one crucial piece of advice, always walk like you know exactly what you're doing. Always walk like you're already untouchable, and no one will ever bother you. Now was not the time to tell him.

The path they took lead them to a beautiful underwater ballroom—directly below the Golden Cloister. The walls were five inches thick, shatter proof, enforced with steel bars and completely air-tight. The bouncer recognized Kingsfjord, let Blake and Smith in after him. They went over it all on a gilded walkway, covered in red carpet, over looking the tables and glistening, freshly-polished and waxed dance floor, glossy enough to reflect the water above, just before a stage made to look like an open shell, gleaming with mother-of-pearl. It was set up for the in-house band, the Indigo-gos, but they were not there. Their instruments stood alone.

The garage was plain, by comparison. So was Kingfjord's car. It was gray, average, nondescript. Blake stopped, let himself get carried away with paranoid thoughts for a second. A car with one Link inside seemed like a risk. Two Links was tempting fate. _Three _was spitting in fate's face. Din's fire. He should have asked Ruto to drive. It might as well have a target painted on it.

But he climbed in anyway, sat beside Smith in the back were he could keep an eye on him, gave Kingsfjord directions to his apartment, where the Black Armos waited for them. He and Smith got out again got into the Armos, and let Kingsfjord head home. He was jumpy behind the wheel, always looking over his shoulder, always checking his speed, making sure his lights were on, checked his inspection sticker, even though he had _just_ had it changed. He did not want to give them any reason to pull them over. It was good he knew the way already, Smith was not talking. He was home thirty minutes after midnight. The lights were on. Blake wore a grimace the entire slow, crawl down the last stretch of pavement, before gingerly stopping in front of the house and switching the engine off. He looked at Smith. He was hunched over, his arms clamped tight around his middle. He looked sick, and Marin was still awake. But of course Marin was still awake. There was no way Marin would not be still awake. Smith was acting suspicious, and even worse, now she knew _he_ was tangled up in all of this, and would have questions. Questions it would fall on Blake to answer.

"We're back."

"Oh." Smith replied, stone-faced. He did not seem particularly relieved to be home. He got out of the car. Blake followed suit. He would be needed for moral support, as well as answers. He put the car keys in his pocket and followed Link up the over-grown walkway to the rickety front steps. He had barely reached for the door knob when it swung open. Marin stood there, obviously worried, plenty mad. Smith jumped back, gasped. Blake blinked and wondered if she had seen him yet. There was a brief pause where they all stood still, and Smith decided (or maybe he could not help it) not to waste any time and energy on pretense, on trying to look tough.

He did not say anything. He did not even have it in him to cry. He just clamped his arms tightly around her waist, pressed his forehead against her shoulder. He was dead quiet for a while. The anger melted off of her face, leaving concern. She hugged him, closed her eyes and rested her cheek against the back of his head. Stroked his back then took the collar of her shirt between two fingers. Blake walked forward. He could barely see her face, but she knew she was thinking about it—and slowly realizing that there was no way Smith had a silk button up shirt two sizes to big for him.

Smith started to shake, then he muttered, "Marin!" and she stopped wondering. She steered him inside, started trying to pry the truth out of him. Blake followed. The truth was not coming out. Link had locked it away tightly and he was not going to breathe a word of it. Ever again. He just clung to her and whimpered quietly. She set him down on the couch, soothing him with a delicate, sweet, firm, cheesecake-like voice, holding his head against her creamy caramel-freckled shoulder.

When he shut the door behind him, she turned her sea-blue eyes to him. They turned icy. Stormy. She batted her eyelashes impatiently and demanded, "What happened? Blake, what did you _do?"_

She was blaming him again.

_"_I'm so sorry." Blake said, his voice was flat, looking for something to say, anything, "We—uh." No stuttering. Stuttering meant lies. Blake motioned with his hand, palm up, fingers open, acted like he was fishing for words. He kept his eyes focused on her, stifling any body language that would betray a lie. A wayward glance upwards, a bite on his lip. He closed his fingers, like he was grabbing the lie right out of the air, "Witnessed a mugging on our way to the car from the library. That sort of thing is—it doesn't normally happen in Lanayru." Marin blinked again. The ice melted. "He was—shot. We had to hide so the attacker would not see us, and that was a valuable moment in time we could have used to call the hospital but," Black paused, deliberate, holding her in suspense, then told her, "By the time we were able too, by the time they had arrived, it was too late for him."

"In Lanayru?" Marin asked, breathlessly, the storm in her voice blew away. "That sort of thing doesn't happen at _all_ in Lanayru."

It did, however infrequently. Blake let her believe what she wanted. That part was crucial. "Well—apparently it does now." he took a seat on the well-worn armchair, laced his fingers together between his knees, looked up at her from under his hair, hoped she did not noticed the remnants of black paint around his eyes, "And you would think—considering where we were—it would not have happened at all." he glanced away and said, pretending it was not meant for her to hear, "Who mugs and murders college students? What kind of a monster could do such a thing?"

She pounced on it. Seized it. She thought she was getting all the answers she had ever wanted and she was not letting a single one slip from her, "You went to the college?"

"It was meant to be a surprise." His words were a lie, but the emotion was so real. Blake remembered the first time he saw a dead body—the first time he knew someone had died on his account. He shuddered. He could _hear_ the rope squealing as the body swayed back and forth. The beat up sneaker falling to the pavement below, bouncing, hitting the water. The open-mouthed stare. His voice cracked. "He said it would make you so happy if we did—he just needed a little extra help so—"

He deliberately trailed off, again, looked away. It would be easy to say what he planned to say, but right now, he was an actor, this was a scene in a play, and it had to be directed just so. Tensions had to mount, lines paused for effect. She had to believe he was trying to hide it. She had to believe _this_ was the secret. _  
_

"What?" Marin's voice went tight. Her grip tightened around Link. "What were you helping him do?"

He pretended to force it out, "S-study for his GED."

Despite the news, Marin did seem a little happy to hear that. She smiled, her eyelashes fluttered, laughed a little. It washed everything away. Blake's heart felt like it was trapped in a pin-ball machine, it was banging around with so many bells and whistles going off at once. It was knocked around so much it must have slammed into his brain and knocked it into orbit, because as soon as those eyelashes were done fluttering he had completely forgotten what he had just told her.

Smith did not like lying. As he slipped out of Marin's arms, he muttered, "I just—wanted to surprise you." He still looked like he was going to be sick, though. Definitely looked like he was not going to be getting any sleep at all.

"Oh, Link! It's alright... Alright that you tried to hide it, I mean." she hugged him again, quick this time. The two shared a glance. Blake nodded. That was one lose end nicely tied up with a bow, "Go take a shower. Get some sleep." she suddenly looked like she had no idea what to say—there was no much _to_ say. The sure way to make tomorrow worse was to say it would be better.

"I have work tomorrow."

"Link, you don't have to go." She did not really mean that. She wanted to mean it. But she did not. She patted his back, stood him up and pushed him in to the bedroom, "Everything's clean, okay? It—we'll be okay."

Everyone wanted that to be true. She closed the door, pressed her hand against the wood, then her forehead. Now that she was in a small tank top and loose flannel pants instead of a flowing dress, he saw how skinny she was. He risked a smile—it was horrible how he could think about it so easily—he could hear his mother harping on it already. Marin glanced at him. He hid the smile quick enough.

"Why are you still here?"

"Well—I..." Right after telling her news of a murder was a horrible time to invite her on a picnic. A horrible, horrible time. A tactless decision. It would throw the entire story into doubt, or at the very least, make her think he was a sociopath, "I just—I think Link might sleep a little easier if he wasn't alone."

"He won't be alone." Marin shook her head, glanced down, then covered her chest with her hair to hide the fact that she was freezing. Blake glanced up and noticed that, yes, it was not much warmer inside than it was outside. "It's too cold." she picked up a discarded blanket, folded it sloppily, "He's sleeping in the bed with me."

"No heater?"

"No heater."

"Oh." Blake glanced towards the back door, wondered where their unit was, how easily it could be fixed, "It's a good thing he's your brother. I'd be—"_ Din, why did you let me start that sentence? _"terribly jealous."

"What?"

"I—That was out of place."

"Link's not my brother!" Marin shook her head, covered her chest with the blanket, "I just live here."

That lying little shit. "Oh?"

"He just says that. And I can see why—two people just a few years apart that aren't related living together but _not_ sleeping together? Apparently a difficult concept for people to understand." she sighed, shook her head, and walked to the door. She grabbed her purse, balanced it on the folded blanket, and took out a black canister of pepper spray. She held it out in her open hand to Blake, "Good night."

She wanted him to go.

He did not want to go.

He reached forward and took the pepper spray from her cool palm, even though he had already bought some to replace it and did not need this one any more, "Did you need to use it?"

"No. I didn't."

He let go of it, letting it drop back into her open hand. He drew away his hand quickly, stuffed in his back pocket, let his eyes follow the line of diminishing caramel freckles up her arm to the white shadow on her shoulder. She did not wear long sleeves or high collars very much. "Keep it."

"Blake, if I hadn't have taken it, you probably could have helped that poor boy tonight."

There was silence. "No—No I knew he had a gun. Even a blind man can pull a trigger. He could have hit me—even worse, he could have hit _Link."_

There was another pause. Marin bit her lip, slipped the pepper spray back in her purse and set it down on the small, tall table by the door. She did not want him to leave now. "Thank you."

Welp, always leave when they're begging you to stay, after all. Blake nodded, reached for the door knob, and said, "I'll see you 'round."

Marin shivered in the sudden burst of even colder air. Blake considered taking a look at their heater—but he did need to get out of her hair and not over-stay his welcome. He got in to his car, started the engine, and drove away so Marin would not get suspicious of him before taking out his phone. He had about five missed calls from his roommate. It was too late to call him. They both had stuff to do in the morning. Blake looked around, did not see anyone out. He had stuff to do _now_, though.

What was that stuff Smith had found? Hydrofluoric Acid?

He unlocked his phone. He had access to the internet on it. Slow and shaky, and really it was a risk using this phone for it. A risk he did not really want to take tonight. He had to get that video off his phone, too, before someone picked it up and saw it. That would take quite a bit of explaining. He would put the video on a flash drive (he had plenty) mail it to... Blake absentmindedly tapped the screen. Who? He had just taken the video with out really thinking what he would _do_ with it. His impulsiveness was a liability he needed to snuff out. If he mailed it to a news paper, they could not really publish it. They were subject to public decency. The police could not do anything—they were usually who he went to when no one paid his fees, but they could not do anything against the Ganondorf. His power superseded theirs, and he extended his protection to his team of private law enforcers. The Not-so-Secret police. He did not dare try to blackmail Ganondorf. That would just be stupid.

The most solid, damning piece of evidence he had—and he could no absolutely nothing with it!

Worst of all, he had to tell _Smith_ there was nothing he could do with it. Nothing that would amount to anything. All it did was prove they were not crazy. All it did was prove they were working towards something. All it did was prove that, yes, someone had maliciously poisoned Aryll.

The hospital.

Blake thought about it for a second.

No—sure maybe it would be good for them to know what happened, but what could they do about it?

Did he have any dirt on the minister of communications?

Who _was_ the minister of communications? He needed to figure that out. If he knew, if he had any thing to hold over his head, he could make _him_ do something with it. That would not be blackmailing Ganondorf, but it _would_ be ruffling his feathers a bit, and getting the word out. It would take a bit of editing to make it safe to view by the general public. Blake, regrettably, did not know how to hijack public broadcasting satellites. He knew it could be done. It had been done before. He just did not know _how_. He did not know anyone who did.

He watched the video a third time. Considering they did not see the actual beheading on screen, it could be easily written off as a fake. He needed the footage from the convenience store cameras. He needed a man on the inside for that—he needed a man he did not have. He could never tell Smith this, but when it came to this, they were both equally out of depth. Blake had never made anything from so little before. A blurry, could-be-fake video segment, a couple of picto-graphs. All they had was a moral victory.

And it felt terrible.

He needed a drink.

There was no better place to get one than that club Link had probably dropped the stuff he had stole from Cole Malladus' place, the one under the insurance office. He yawned. Maybe they knew someone. He did not want to burrow into deep to that boar's side. Smith might trust them. Fine. Smith could trust them. He was making a mistake, but he was physically capable to trusting them, so he could trust them. Blake knew a little better. Gangs were never good.

That club was a secret to everybody. There were no signs out, no markers of any kind. Blake parked the Armos, yawned again. He had class in the morning and his roommate was calling. Blake took the phone from his pocket. It hummed and vibrated up a storm in his hand. Eventually, he answered.

He heard the sounds of a video game—first person shooter—then, "The hell are you?"

"Out." Blake replied, "I'm out, that's all. Cramming. I'm out cramming."

He really hoped the phone was not strong enough to pick up the heavy base of the club mix pouring from the bottom of the stairs. Blake took a few steps back, leaned against the wall.

"Only you would start cramming a week before the test."

"No—no there are a couple of others. I'll see you in a bit."

"Pick up some beer."

Blake growled, high, strained, angry, left a stinging sensation in the back of his mouth. He hung up. Great. One more thing to do. He hung up the phone. He really hated his room-mate. He really did. He played flatmate roulette and he lost the draw. He yawned again. Trilby had the most annoying habit of waking up as soon as Blake was settling into bed, turning the TV on—and promptly leaving it on while he listened to blaring, loud music though headphones and played video games. Tonight was a no-sleep night all around.

Blake looked at his phone again, and considered—he really considered—sending him a few of the... _messier_ images he had acquired. Every hour. On the hour. But all images could be traced. The infamous Shadow, a blackmailer that had brought several people of importance to their knees, would not be thrown in jail or shot on sight for petty harassment. He put the phone in his pocket again, went down the stairs, and threw open the door.

He hated nightclubs. Before anyone saw him, he put up his hood, hid his eyes. The windbreaker was too big for a reason.

He went in, and was immediately stopped by a Moblin in a black leather jacket. Blake was not able to see his eyes. There was a fresh, delicately stitched, nick in his left nostril, a bit like a small hook had been plunged in, jerked out. When he opened his mouth, a strobe light flashed at just the right moment. There was a gaping hole where a lower molar used to be. Blake did not ask. He did not want to know. He was plenty versed on the workings of the Moblin gang. Poor bastard had crossed the Dentist's line.

Could have been worse for him. He could have offended the Barberess.

Blake shuddered. She was one to never cross.

"What can I do ya for?"

Despite the obvious gum pain, he was eager to help.

"Yeah." Blake shouted over the blaring music, "I need to talk about Link. Link Smith."

The Moblin might have gone a little pale. It was hard to tell. He tilted his head, "Did something happen to him? Is he okay?"

"You know him?"

"I live near him. Name's Larry."

Blake could not remember if Smith had mentioned him or not. He knew Marin had. She had pointed him out at the landromat, when he had been lurking around the corner. If Blake had known he was so closely connected, he would have just talked to him then. She said he was a local drug pusher—Blake was not sure if that was true or not. He checked him over, saw a package of cigarettes in his jacket pocket. "Fancy a smoke?"

"Yes." he replied, "Sure."

They did not go far, just out the door. They stayed at the bottom of the stairs where the wind could not reach them, and it was a little warmer. Larry handed him a cigarette. Blake did not really smoke. He could count on one hand the times he had. Still, he needed to talk to Larry, and talking to Larry meant getting Larry to like him, and that meant taking the damn cigarette and risking a little lung cancer for the greater good, "Thanks."

He pretended he always smoked, let Larry light it for him and took a drag. He had never understood smoking plain tobacco (and it was plain tobacco—Blake had expected something a with a little more bite.) It just felt like breathing regular air. That, or he had never quite mastered getting the smoke to actually go into his lungs. It was strange, but there was actually a trick to smoking, a trick that eluded him. The smoke hung around in his mouth, did not go anywhere. It was a little like breathing through a straw. Nothing special. Still, it _looked_ like he was smoking. Little trails of it billowed from his mouth when he talked, deliberately avoiding what he wanted to talk about, waiting for Larry to set the tone.

He did, "You know Marin?"

_Like to know her better. _Blake thought, but he answered, tersely. "Yeah."

"Ah." So then he asked, "You know Link... How?"

And there was a pause. Blake sized him up. Tall, broad. Friendly looking. Smith could have picked a worse liaison between him and the Moblin King. Larry seemed okay, if a little quiet. Blake cut to the chase, "First things first. We never had this conversation."

"Figured as much."

"I'm interested in a black CD case." he said, made sure the hood was tugged down properly, "Little something Smith picked up from Cole Malladus' place. It's valuable. Particularly if you find the right buyer. I want to know you didn't just sell it right back to the owner."

"Oh. _That_."

"Yeah. That. You know what's on it?"

"We figured it was something. It's impossible to de-encrypt. Must be valuable."

"It is. It's valuable to me. Where is it?"

Larry started playing a much harder game; "How much are you willing to pay?"

Blake as not interested in money. Not really. The money was a cold consolation for not getting anyone the lynch mob they deserved. He did not feel like explaining that, so he fibbed; "You'll find out how much I'm willing to pay when you put me in contact with the person that has the discs."

"It's the Moblin King."

Blake inhaled a little too sharply, and found the trick to smoking at the worst possible time. He fought back a series of coughs, apologized profusely, and said, "Good—" His lungs burned, tickled. He coughed, "Good. Moblin...King'll... Shit... It's in good hands—but how do I get into contact with him?"

Blake knew _of_ the Moblin King—he knew more than Smith knew, certainly. He lived somewhere in Kakariko. Blake would imagine the seediest, filthiest corner. He liked shiny things, powerful things. Valuable trinkets, red meat, a nice cigar, game of poker. Walks in the park. Good films. Normal things. But Blake had never spoken a word to him. Not over the phone, not in person. Nothing. Aside from rumor, Blake had a huge blank where a face, a name, and a much more valuable phone number would be.

"Why would you want them?"

"I want what's on those CD's to be seen. He wants to see it. I know how to get it—he doesn't. I think we can reach an agreement that would benefit everyone."

Larry nodded, went back inside, and came back out with a phone number written on a napkin, "There." he said, "That number. Call that number around ten tomorrow night. He'll be there—he'll be interested in what you have to say."

Blake took it. He could hardly read it in the light. It might not be legit, but it was a Kakariko area code, nine digits, it checked out. Larry had plenty of reason not to trust him. Even now he was probably expecting Blake to pull out a pair of handcuffs and cart him off to jail. He tossed the cigarette down, killed it with the heel of his shoe, and muttered, "Try chewing gum sometime."

Larry either ignored it or did not care to reply. Blake stuffed it in his back pocket, climbed the stairs, and vanished around the corner, like a shadow.

* * *

Gosh, wouldn't it be, like, really weird if during all of this Fi woke up in the Master Sword just completely abandoned? Like, maybe Link's un-containable rage woke her up or something, sort of a safety net Hylia gave her—that she would always wake if Link ever needed her. Except now she's probably in a dark, locked box like she was an SCP or something and was just GOSH wouldn't that be just weird if that were happening right now. Like—gee. And maybe she'd call for Link at first and be like, 'Well—there goes that plan." And then she'd call for Scrapper and maybe Scrapper would hear her but I doubt he's working so no one would come.


	15. Chapter 15

Interlinking

(Disclaimed)

Sorry, guys. Difficult to find time to write with a job and school—and hard to find the energy.

But if the internet keeps going out on the reg I guess it won't be hard to find time.

This chapter was weird. Under went about five or six re-writes, Ganondorf, then Phantom Ganon (a projection of the security system), then Puppet Ganon (a robot) to scrap it all and finally settled on Beetle then did not like it and I went back to Ganondorf.

So yeah. Spoiler alert.

Ganondorf.

* * *

Chapter fifteen:

Link stared up at the ceiling. It was still chilly out, so his face was freezing, but under piles of blankets, his feet were burning up. They felt like a bed warmer, sending heat radiating up though his legs, reaching to his finger tips. The rest of him felt normal, physically. Last night's excursion had failed to make him sore, despite the running and climbing. He did not move. He just lay there. It felt like he had been just laying there for half the night, dozing off for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, before entering REM, seeing that haunting image all over again, feeling his heart pound and skip so suddenly he feared it would give out, and being jolted awake. The sun was not up yet. Marin was not up yet. She was curled up in the fetal position, clutching the edge of the blanket in her hand. He glanced to the window. He did not see a hint of moonlight—what he saw was a yellow street lamp from one street over, and it felt like a wall cutting him off from the sky. It usually went off about half an hour before dawn.

Link tried to remember what time dawn would be. He had found he had always just had an innate awareness of things like that. When sunset would be, sunrise. Sometimes, he could even tell the weather from the feel in the air. Not now. Now there was nothing.

He closed his eyes. Marin had left the faucets dripping to keep the pipes from freezing solid in the night. The noise was just irregular enough to be absolutely loathsome. Link's body was ready for sleep. His eyelids would not stay open and everything felt heavy and relaxed, while his mind felt like a clockwork of saw blades. Loud, never ending, poorly fitting. The teeth clashing together, sending sparks bouncing around, but cutting through nothing.

He needed sleep. He had no idea how late or early it was, but he could not sleep. He had work. He was not eager to set to work butchering cows again. But it was a job—and he needed sleep to do it. He had heard horror stories. People dozing off, losing fingers, hands, arms, lives to the machines.

That did not help.

Link kicked off the blankets, shivered the moment the air touched his skin. The hair on his arms and legs prickled. He pulled on his jeans and shirt—they felt frozen stiff.

The motion, the sudden feeling of cold air on her back, woke Marin up, but only half way. Blindly, she reached out for him, grabbed his wrist, "What are you doing?"

He whispered, "Can't sleep."

Her hand dropped, brushed his bluejeans, and she said, sleepy, giggling just a tad, "Well, duh. You're fully dressed. Silly."

And she was out again.

Link started lacing up his boots. In the darkness, he fumbled, dropped one with a loud thunk. Marin gasped, sat up, and looked at him, then at the clock, then to Link, "Link it's only three in the morning, what are you doing?"

"It... It can't be three."

Marin looked at the clock again, "It is. It's just three fifteen."

She was right.

"I can't sleep."

She frowned, could not say anything. He did not expect her to. There was not much too say in a situation like this except, "It's three."

"It can't be three. I've been awake for hours."

She turned again, propped herself up on her elbow, still did not ask if he wanted anything, needed anything, if he was okay. They both knew he was not, "You'll never get to sleep fully dressed."

Link looked beyond her to the clock. It was three fifteen. There was no way it was just three. He stared back at her in the darkness, the suffocating silence broken only by the dripping chorus of water from the kitchen and bathroom. It felt so stupid to say it—the evidence was staring him right in his face, Marin frowned, dropped her weight so her shoulder jutted up to her ear as he insisted, "It—It can't be three."

He was upsetting her. Mostly because he had been through a traumatic experience and she had no idea what to do about it. She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, brushed a tangled coil of hair out of her face, then the mad expression faded, "You're frightened, Link, but you need sleep."

She was right. He took off his shirt and jeans, slipped back between the blankets. Disturbing them had made his side of the bed cold. Marin did not take her eyes from him. When he laid down, she propped his head on her hand, "Would you sleep if I kept watch?"

"Don't."

"I don't have work." she reminded him, "So if one of us goes with out sleep, it may as well be me. Besides, I've already slept."

"I can't sleep with you starring at me."

She shrugged, turned over, and lay back down. Link was left in relative silence again. He tried to keep his mind unoccupied, focused only on breathing. He tried to think about nothing, of blackness. The sounds echoed in his head. Behind his eyelids, lights began to dance, purple and bright green, moving in in consecutive circles, distracting him.

He did not want his own personal aurora. Sleep continued to elude him for what felt like hours. It must have been hours. He had been laying awake thinking for so long.

"Marin—"

"It's three twenty." She was having none of his bullshit.

Link went back to waiting for sleep to find him. It did not find him. Time dragged on and he waited. And waited...

The dream was different this time. It was brief, just a flash. That flash was all he needed. A face, the mouth contorted in a furious scream. He could hear it. He could feel it like it was his own voice.

Then he felt a hand shaking him, and when he came to he was staring at himself in the mirror at the opposite wall, half a yard away from the bed. Marin's hand was clamped tight around his upper-arm, and she was shaking him gently. Link took a deep breath, his throat stung, his ears were ringing. He stared at himself; the mirror, the lack of sleep, set up a kind of strange, out-of-body experience. He looked half-there, the light seeping in from the window lit up half of his face, the rest was darkness. What was there looked horrible. Frightened and starving. Link wondered when his last good night's sleep had really been? Clearly, he could never have one again.

Marin turned, he felt the tips of her hair brush his hand as she looked at the clock, "It's five. Lay back down. Maybe you can get another two hours. Even bad sleep is sleep."

Link was too shaken for sleep. He flung off the sheets, practically threw himself out of the bed and reached for his clothes, "Can't."

"Link, what are you doing?"

"Going for a walk."

"Link, don't. It's _freezing!_"

Link did not respond. He pulled on his frozen clothes. Marin knew stopping him was impossible, so she stared doing the same thing, stuffing her long pajama pants into a pair of thick winter socks she had not put away yet, two shirts, and a hoddie, still trying to convince him to sit down and stop, while racing him to get dressed faster.

"Don't follow me!"

"If you don't go I won't have to."

"I'm just going to walk around the block a couple of times. Clear my head."

He opened the bedroom door, grabbed a throw blanket from the chair for extra warmth and started wrapping it around his shoulders. Behind him, Marin fell over trying to pull her boot on properly, "Link!"

There was a furious pounding on the door.

"You woke up the neighbors!"

Link reached for the door knob, threw it open, and someone, some neighbor, it was hard to tell who when they were so bundled up, was standing there, hand poised to start banging again. Before they could ask what was going on, or threaten to call the police, Link slipped out of the way, did not say a word, and left Marin to deal with them. She huffed, then apologized for the noise, the last words he heard were, "Link had a nightmare."

Then he was out of earshot. He bundled up tighter, kept walking, but slowed his pace. He walked until he reached the laundromat, taking in every detail to distract himself. In the parking lot, there was a large black van tucked away. Normally, this would make him a little wary, but he saw no motion inside the van, none inside the laundromat or the attracted smoke shop. It was not a burglary. From there he turned left, past a run-down gas station, then a row of duplexes, their house shared a back fence with one, to a doughnut shop, and he turned left again, before heading back to the house. The first time around, he just focused on walking, the distractions. Someone's ceramic lawn kiwi had been a casualty of a run-over mailbox. The doughnut shop now served mint lattes.

It was like the guilt was something he could separate himself from if he just took enough steps, focused on his foggy breath in front of his face. Any pain could be dealt with—he just had to breathe. He kept walking. He went by the house, and he saw Marin and the neighbor chatting on the front porch. Marin clearly wanted to follow him, but was torn between doing that, and not being rude. Across the street, he saw a faint light, a shift in the blinds. Someone was peeking out, watching.

How loud had he been screaming?

He would apologize in the morning.

On the second lap, he had begun to warm up and relax. He kept looking around, and he did not have to think about what had happened early that night. He wondered what Blake was doing, hoped no one was calling the cops, then he felt sorry for embarrassing Marin like that. He would apologize to her when he came by again.

By the time he reached the laundromat again, he knew it was time to make a decision about himself. He had been on the fence for a while. Thinking it was coincidence one minute, thinking it was all real and all fate the next. He was conflicted, but not conflicted enough to argue with himself about it—he had not thought there had been enough evidence for it that he could not dismiss as coincidence, dumb luck.

But out of everyone in the city she could have run into, Zelda ran into _him._

So, _was_ he the one?

Perhaps he was.

_No._ It was automatic. Like a door slamming in his face_, no. _One coincidence did not a certain destiny make. Sure, there was no doubt in his mind that he _would_ get to the bottom of this, save the country, expose Ganondorf, and maybe bring Zelda home. So in that sense, objectively, when the facts were laid out, he was the one. He was as good a hero as anyone else. Probably the best anyone was going to get, now that the cycle was broken.

Or was he _the one?_

Had the cycle never been broken in the first place? Was that just a lie, a piece of propaganda spread by Ganondorf to keep any potential hero down? Was he the one they were waiting for, praying for, the one they deserved? Was he the one they needed? Was he the one that it should be, or was there someone else? Suppose the real one was somewhere, he was just a little too young—perhaps some freak accident had killed him off when he was little, so he had to be born again, and Zelda was a few years older—was that possible?

It had to be. The goddesses had to have _some_ kind of safety net in place for infant mortality. Or maybe the Spirit of the Hero was just immune to that sort of thing? In every iteration of the legend, Ganondorf was always older, able to get a head start. What if that head start was to find the Hero and kill him? Where would Zelda be then? What if, in his head start, he managed to dispose of _both_? What would happen? Perhaps he had, at one point—and no one ever told that story. For good reason. A seventeen year old boy murdering a thirty something was heroic. A twenty year old man murdering two infants was chilling.

But what if he managed to do it?

What kept him from doing it every time?

Hyrule wanted the hero of Legend. They did. It was obvious they did. They wanted the classic tale. The Master Sword. The Princess. Maybe some time travel. So maybe he was what they needed, a Hero that was willing to set aside honor for the greater good, resort to sneaking around in shadows, committing crimes—but he was not what they wanted.

But could he really do _anything?_

He had met with gang members, robbed a house, broken into a government building, just in a couple of weeks. Compared to his life before, the dull scrape of just trying to make ends meet, that was a lot. But he had not killed anything yet. He shuddered. If there was something the Hero had always done, it was kill. Not people, sometimes he even let Ganondorf live—but he did kill ancient guardians, and he did kill real, sentient beings with hearts and souls and just because he had not understood their last words did not mean they did not have meaning.

Link did not think he could actually kill anything and look Marin or Aryll in the eye again.

But, maybe he was what they were waiting for, the Hero not just in deeds, but in his very being

_No. _There it was again. It was not self-doubt. It was just a voice in his mind telling him_, No, it's not you. It has never been you and it will never be you._

He was back at the house again. Marin was still talking to the neighbor. They were not talking about him anymore. They were talking about her lost job. From the other house, someone shouted, "It's five in the morning! Go to bed!"

The neighbor left, still chatting up a storm. Marin did not go inside. She waited, bundled up, on the front porch for Link. He considered climbing the stairs, but he stayed where he was. He was just going to go back down them again, and he did not want Marin to think he was done wandering around.

"I'm sorry I left in a rush."

"It's okay."

This time, she meant it.

"I'm not coming in yet." Link told her, "I still need to work through some things."

Marin tilted her head, "You want to talk about them?"

"No. Go back to bed."

"Alright."

She did not sound to thrilled, but she did it. He was left in the darkness out side the house. He turned on his heel and went back through the fence, taking the same path as before. Now that he had kicked the silly notion of being the Hero of Time out of his head, he had to bother convincing himself that _not_ being the Hero of Time was what he wanted. It disappointed him, a little bit.

But at least the thoughts were coherent.

There was a roar behind him, a sudden flash of light. Link's head whipped around in time to see a blinding pair of headlights rushing towards him at a lethal speed. He threw himself backwards, slammed into a white fence, ripping his shirt on a picket and snapping a cross beam. The screaming metal battering ram swerved to the side, knicked a stop sign, and missed him by a good two yards. Link felt his side. No blood. He picked himself up off the pavement, got ready to get a look at the license plate number as it sped away, or got ready for death, but the van had come to a stop again, and sat there, cordially, in the wrong lane, perfectly illuminated by a street lamp.

The driver's side window rolled down completely, as if his attacker wanted Link to see him, but the light reached all the wrong places. Link could not see him. He saw his outline as the pale yellow light splashed against the mirrored, passenger-side window, the shine on his hair. The gleam on his gold watch as he put the van in park. He was not moving any time soon. Link looked to the long, dark side window. The driver could be the only one in there—there could be ten crammed into the back. He took a half step away, swallowed dryly.

"Come into the light."

Every instinct screamed for him to run away—but what would he do? They were in a car, he was on foot. He would never out run them, and _clearly_ they knew where to find him. The safest place he knew was home, and Marin was there. There was no way he was going to get her dragged into this. He might as well wait, see if they would deliver any kind of ultimatum before they made another attempt on his life, or if they were even did. If they had wanted too, they could have just backed up and tried ramming him again, and the driver had been given plenty of time to do that, or even just reach in the passenger seat and pick up a waiting gun and shoot him.

If Marin had not been awake, he would have thought about bringing his gun. He thought about it, still hidden in the backpack beside the couch. It would have been so easy to grab it. He was such an idiot, he—

The driver's rough, gravely voice cut him off, "Come into the light. No harm will come to you."

Link checked his side for injury again. It was tender to the touch, bruised, but the skin was not broken, and his ribs felt whole. Running would have been smarter. He should have run. Even as he stepped forward, he thought about the quickest routes to the best hiding places. Farore's temple, the library, behind the dumpster.

"_Cheekbones_."

"What?"

A shadowy hand reached up, tapped his cheekbone. The watch gleamed. "I've seen your face take on a lot of characteristics. You've never looked the same twice." the deep baritone replied, chilly and sharp. From the inside, Link saw a little firey orange glint. It blinked, for just a second. It must have been a trick of the light, but it looked to be where his eye was meant to be. Perhaps he was wearing shades, and someone had sped past them.

"Who are you?"

Why was he wearing _shades_ at night?

The man did not answer, indeed, he went on like Link had not said a word, "It's always a little different, but it's always you. One thing's always the same. Bone structure. Most people think you always look exactly the same, like you're just rolled off some assembly line. When I first beat you, in this life, at least, they had this one teenage heart throb—Can't remember his name now—but Din's Fire if they had made one more movie with him in the lead I was going to burn down the studio. Cheekbones were all wrong. You can't substitute a strong jawline for high cheek bones it just doesn't work. You've always had the same cheekbones, you know. Girly ones. Then again, I don't think I've seen you reach the age of twenty before. You might look quite chiseled in your twilight years."

"Who _are_ you?"

"Used to be I didn't let you get past puberty. You never let me have a proper mid-life crisis."

Link took another step back, felt the cold metal of a traffic light's post in between his shoulder blades. He stammered it out, completely spooked, "Who is Farore's good name _are_ you?"

He laughed. Deep and wide, his voice was like a dark canyon. Link saw his silhouette throw its head back, the mouth open wide with mirth, like Link had just told a hilarious joke, something that only the two of them would understand, "You really _don't_ recognize me! Usually, you have some kind of innate sense. Not this time, eh?"

"What are you talking about?"

"It's _me _you stupid boy."

Link could not believe it. He did not _want_ to believe it. Ganondorf? No. It could not be Ganondorf. This was some kind of sick joke. Still, Link was worried, and wondered how many serial killers masqueraded as Ganondorf. None came to mind. Link tried diverting the attention from himself. Brushing him off. Playing ignorant. He turned around and waved him away, "You've got the wrong guy."

The impostor let him take five steps, then asked, "Link Smith, right?"

Link stopped, a chill raced up his spine and he was frozen dead still. His answer was too slow to be noticed as anything by a lie, "N-no."

He laughed, it was not genuine this time. "I'm an old man, Link." he spit out his name like it was the bane of his existence. Link supposed it might be. "An old, _old_ man. Impossibly old. Unfathomably old. When someone gets in my business, it's not hard to figure out who it is."

Link turned around, he did not know what to say, or what to do, "H-how did you find me?"

He had been so careful. He had tried so hard. How had he found him?

"In your defense, I did not give you much of a sporting chance. When that _unfortunate _incident happened at the Water Commission, I took the liberty of searching the hospital records for anyone who had a brother named Link that was seventeen years old. There were ten. But only two with a birthday in Sariasmon. And _you_ were the only one that would have been at the Water Commission tonight."

Link could not keep her name from slipping out, "Aryll!"

"Yes. Aryll Smith. Nice girl. Always been a nice girl. Then again, I tend to judge people based on how they act when I've got their loved ones lodged on the end of a sword, or looking down the barrel of a gun, and that usually makes people very, very—"

"You're threatening them."

"No." Ganondorf assured him, "I know you've got people doing that already—If I do the same thing eventually those orders will conflict and you'll have to choose which one of us gets to kill that precious little sister of yours. Unlike _them, _I have experience dealing with you. Hurting _her_ will just make matters worse, so I'd much rather let _them_ take that fall."

Then, there was a little click, and a sudden motion caught Link's eye. The hatch-back had popped open. He yelped, expecting a crack team of Gerudo to come rushing out. Nothing happened. Link glanced back at Ganondorf. He was still hidden, but he said, "No, go ahead, take a look. It's safe."

Link had a hard time believing him. He looked around. It did not look like anyone was going to jump out of the shadows and stuff him in. He peeked around the open hatch door. No one was hiding there. There were two bench seats on either side, and between them, under a single light on the ceiling, there was a brown leather suit case, dusty and old. Link looked around again. The street was empty. He walked around the door, grabbed the case by the handle and pulled it towards him, listening in the silence for any kind of beeping or ticking. He glanced up at the rear view mirror, trying to get a look at Ganondorf. He just saw his own reflection. He had not heard a noise from the case—no bomb. Link ran his hand over the leather first, before opening it. It felt like his hand knew every imperfection in the leather, every bump and groove. He flicked open the metal latches that held it shut and threw it open, then, for good measure, he jumped back.

Link was dumbfounded. He had expected explosives, maybe a spike trap, or maybe clear bribery, if it was not filled with something that would kill him, surely it would have been stacked to the brim with cash. In the legends, Ganondorf had not seemed like a man that would stoop to buying off his enemies, but legends and real life were to different things.

But it was not.

"Clothes?!"

No. There had to be something hidden in there. Link reached in, rifled through the folded t shirts and jeans expecting to find a hidden knife ready to stab his hand, anything. It was just clothing. That was all it was. Mostly green shirts, some were brown, blue, or white, but for the most part, it was green. It all had a clean, cold, but it a kind of stale, smell to it, like it had not been touched once in generations. Link took out a shirt, looked at it. It could have been one of his, thick, interlocking knit, crew neck. He had at least five shirts that were identical to this one. It was a clear testament to the dull, unchanging world of mens' fashion, though Link doubted that was the message Ganondorf was trying to give him. Clearly, it had been well-preserved, the wear and tear was from constant use in the past, not the ravage of time, but it still felt like it was about to fall apart in his hands. Link folded it, stuck it back, and went back to the window. "What is this?"

"A long, long time ago—many lifetimes. You asked me, begged me even, 'Please, just take the Triforce. Take Hyrule. Just let us live. We'll go far away, and we'll never bother you again.'"

"The Hero would never do that."

"Yes. You did." he disagreed cordially. "You said those exact words. You were nineteen. That's the oldest I've ever seen you. Nineteen. And you still couldn't raise a beard. It was summer. We met out of town on a dusty road, just the three of us. 'Let us go and we'll vanish' I thought it was strange at first, thought it was a little odd that the so-called Hero of Legend would back down from his destiny, particularly in front of Zelda. So I called you a dishonorable coward and shot you. Right in the head."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because now I'm giving you that chance."

"What?"

"Find Zelda." he ordered, "And vanish."

"This is a trick. You're just trying to use me to find her. I don't know where she is."

"I know."

"You _know_?"

"Yes. And I know why." Ganondorf replied like it was a trivial thing, something Link was not interested in, but as soon as he heard it, he was listening for an explanation.

"Why don't I—"

He did not want to explain. "She said she didn't know where you were, either. She was lying, though. She's not like you. You've grown quite skilled at lying. She never has. It happens to everyone with God's blood in their veins. Even me. I cannot tell a lie. I know you do not know. But I know you'll never stop until you find her. And when you do find her, what will you do? You'll come right back and try to take me down. Unless I give you the proper motivation to stay away."

"A suitcase full of old clothes isn't very motivating."

"No. It's not."

"So why show it to me?"

He changed the subject abruptly, "How's Marin doing?"

Link was silent for a long time, then he asked, "W-what?"

"What about Aryll? I don't think you've been to see her for a while. That's very careless of you. Suppose I was not so considerate?" he changed the subject again, just as abruptly, "Leave." he said it like 'leaving' was just taking two steps to the gas station, "And they will want for nothing."

Link had trouble believing him. He narrowed his eyes, and wished he could look the man in was speaking to in the eye.

Ganondorf sounded slightly offended, "Isn't _that_ motivating? What are your alternatives?"

He was polite enough not to list them. Marin and Aryll could stay with him, in poverty, or he really could just _leave_ and trust Ganondorf's word. But, no one left. Ever. No one left the city. They were walled in. No one left.

"I'll give you supplies, you've spent eons learning how to rough it, you'll be fine. I'll give you an escort out of the country. You can leave this place behind you."

Suppose they came with him? A life in the wilderness was not much of a life, and his survival skills had never been put to any test. There was _something _out there. Romani's cows had to come from somewhere. There were farms outside the city, he could leave them there if he had too, though neither one was really cut out to be a farm hand. As much as they loved each other, it was probably better if they stayed.

"And what if I don't go? What if I stay?"

"It does not matter to me. Stay, if you like. I quite understand the appeal of city life. But my offer only stands as far as you leave. I can't have you nosing up to me and trying to catch me vulnerable. So long as you don't bother me, I won't bother you, and I certainly won't drag anyone close to you into our quarrel. But if you stay, you will, at some point, you'll have to die. Good news is, it might not be me. It could be the Moblins. Either way, it will be messy. It's always messy. Death is messy. Even when I try to do it cleanly, it's a mess. And these days, the autopsies..." he sighed, "just more mess."

"So why don't you just kill me? Here? Now? What's stopping you?"

"Bored." Ganondorf replied simply, "Before you came back, I hadn't had anyone to really provide a challenge. Power isn't fun if you don't have to struggle for it—and of course there's been a seventeen year break in that heel nipping."

The cycle was _broken_. Ganondorf was mistaken. It must have been longer than that. "Seventeen years?"

"Yes. The last time we met was the Eighteenth of Sariasmon. High noon. Seventeen years ago. You were ten years old then."

"I was just being _born_ then—"

"... Goddesses it was a mess."

Link was not sure if he was talking about the birth or some supposed death.

"But you had the Triforce! There can't be..."

"Ah—yes. The Triforce." Ganondorf said, acting like he had forgotten such an important thing existed, like he had recalled a childhood pet or saw a favorite suit in the back of his closet, "Besides, if I killed you, you'd just sprout right back up and I'd have to go through the trouble of finding you."

"No—this is the only chance I'd get. If you kill me, I'm gone."

Was that... _wrong?_

"Ah—how little you know." the fond, nostalgic tone was dropped, "But of course you don't. She's made you forget."

"What? What do you mean?"

Link took another step forward, reaching for his shoulder, trying to man-handle the truth out of him. He laughed, leaned beyond his reach, and rolled up the window. Link still never caught a glimpse of his face. He drew his arm back to keep from being trapped by the window, "What do you mean, she made me forget?"

"She buried the Hero's Spirit behind so many layers of magic that no one else could see it. Not even you. I would not know you, but she would, only her—But I've met you six times in this life time. Nothing she does can hide you from me."

"In this life time? Don't be stupid. If—" Link thought about it, "You'd have to be... Thousands of years old."

"Ah—yes." The engine revved and the wheels started to move. "I would, wouldn't I?"

* * *

In a real display of badassery, that last chapter was going to end with Marin pepper spraying Ganondorf.


End file.
